Sydney: Season Three
by CRebel
Summary: Eight months after leaving the farm, Sydney Dixon has come to trust and care about her entire group. As the survivors settle into a prison, Sydney deals with issues of growing up, friendship, family, and loyalty as new and old faces threaten to overturn everything she knows.
1. Now

**A.N.: I do not own The Walking Dead or any character, plot piece, etc., from the TV series or comics.  
**

**. . . . .**

This house is big and white and maybe looks kind of like Hershel's farmhouse did. Can't really remember. Not important. Rick kicks open the front door – really, they're two small doors – and goes in. T-Dog's right behind him. I hear the sound of a walker and then the sound of a gunshot – a gunshot? Can I call it that? It's not a _bang_, not with the silencers we have now. It's the sound of a speeding bullet breaking open a skull. That's what a gunshot sounds like these days. Through the doorway, I see movement and hear a head split again. That's T-Dog's work, I think. My dad's going inside now, kicking one of the doors open wider on his way, maybe just for good measure. And then it's Carl and me. Him first. It's his turn to lead. He has his gun in front of him, low but ready, and he's a good shot, but I've nocked an arrow anyway and my finger's on my release trigger. Can't be too careful.

The house? It smells like rotten wood and rotten flesh and rotten food. It _looks_ like a house. They all look alike, don't they? This one now has two walker corpses sprawled in the entryway, in front of a set of stairs, but I don't pause to examine them, or anything. I don't check to see where Dad's gone, where T-Dog's gone. Carl's following Rick, and right now, I have to follow Carl. My steps are silent as I do.

Rick leads the way into what may have been a dining room at one point. There are two doors in this room, close together, in one corner. Rick gestures at one door – Carl and me, we nod – and then goes through the other. Carl's feet edge into _our_ doorway before he springs through it, his gun up. I'm right behind him, tensed, but Carl's already relaxing. No walkers. Just a kitchen, thin and long, lit by gray sunlight through dirty windows. The room's messy, scattered, the counters littered with empty cans and bottles and trash, which tells me that we won't be getting much food from this place. No problem. Not like my stomach's eating itself or anything.

Carl steps over the mess, the dirty floor. I spin on my heel, check our backs. We're good. Carl's heading to the other side of the kitchen now. There's another doorway here. Through it we go, right into darkness. Near darkness, I should say. It's not so dark that, just as I step next to Carl and into the little room, I can't see the slumped figure already here. There's shallow, hissing breath, and then the figure's turning, and by the time it has, there's a pistol I once helped steal – now joined with a long, thin funnel that keeps things quiet – and a carbon arrow – stained with the blood I can't quite get off – aimed in on its head. The walker doesn't have time to snarl before its brain is splattered across the curtain behind it. It slumps to the ground, my arrow sticking out of its forehead like a tree, a bullet hole just an inch below that. I step forward, press my boot into the used-to-be face and tug, tug, _yank_, and my arrow's free. My dad, he always made that look easier than my eleven-year-old muscles find it to be. I turn, feeding the arrow back into my bow, not bothering with cleaning the thing right now. Maybe later.

This room was once a pantry, I think. It's in as bad a shape as the kitchen. Whoever abandoned this house – or whoever raided it before us – didn't leave much of anything behind for our group. Which doesn't seem fair, since there's a good chance those other people are dead by now, just judging by the way the world seems to be these days.

We go back in the kitchen, and Rick's here. Rick. He's looking out the window, his lips parted, his eyes distant, like usual. Carl steps up next to him, wearing his hat, and Rick glances him over, glances me over, and says nothing. The door next to Rick, a door leading outside, opens up, and Glenn comes in. Then Maggie. Glenn has some sort of long gardening tool in his hand. It's bloody. The outside perimeter's secure, then. Carl's gone to sifting through the trash on the counters, looking for scraps, a forgotten can of soup, something edible. I look around once more as Rick and Maggie and Glenn head out of the room, back towards the front doors, probably, and then I take my arrow from the bow and slip it away with the six others in the quiver on my back. I loop my arm through my bow and keep my fingers wrapped around it, going through the junk on the counter with my right hand only. All the new places we go to, and I still can't stand new places. Still can't separate myself from the weapon on my shoulder, or the one tucked into my waistband, or the one clipped to my belt, or the one tucked in my jacket pocket, or the one hidden in my boot.

I hear sounds from the entryway. A whistle. Footsteps down the stairs, heavy ones, Dad or T-Dog. Dad _and _T-Dog.

And in here, I find an empty milk carton, a shiny potato chip bag filled with bugs. The lid of a Sippy cup.

In the other room, I hear one thud, then another. There are lots of types of thuds, but the thud of a corpse being dropped has become very familiar to me, and I know that's what I'm hearing. They'll be removing the bodies, or at least stacking them out of sight.

I switch to the counter behind me. Stained napkins, a spilled container of plastic forks, a pickle jar with a jagged edge because the lid's somehow broken off.

And now it's quieted down in the next room. They're all hungry, they'll all hope for more food than the snacks we have stored away for non-emergency purposes, and it ain't an emergency until someone's dying, pretty much. In fact, in the past eight months – eight _hungry _months – the only time we've dipped into the ever-tempting reserve bag of imperishable _real _food was after Carl and I got lost for three days after a snowstorm. Carol made us each a bowl of chicken noodle soup after we got back. Ah, chicken noodle soup . . . My mouth waters and my stomach cramps. I give my head a little shake. Focus, Sydney. My release is still on my wrist – like always – and my index finger plays with the trigger as I scan over the kitchen again with the kind of hope you know is really hopeless. Hopeless hope. Hm.

Carl's going through a cabinet to my left. I turn to him, hopeless hope still blowing through me, just in time to see his hand draw out a yellow can with a fluffy little dog on the front. The can's unopened. Carl looks at me. I sigh, shrug. What the hell? Carl nods and takes out a second can, and that's all there is.

Out into the entryway. The two corpses are now stacked on top of each other and the front doors are closed and locked. Carl and I take a right, through a wide archway that leads us into a living room. The others are there, all of them – Carol and Lori and Beth and Hershel have come in with the bags – some of them sitting on the floor, some on the furniture. Rick's standing by a window across the room, next to a fireplace. My dad's in a chair, and he's plucking the feathers from an owl. Must've got it somewhere in here.

Dog food and an owl. Not better than chicken noodle soup, but better than starving.

Carl goes to his knees right when we've crossed through the archway. He's to the right of Hershel and the left of Beth, who's next to Lori, who watches as her son places two cans of dog food in front of him, as he gets out a can opener and goes to it, and Lori, she rubs a hand over her huge belly and doesn't say a thing.

The baby . . . Could be here any day. I wish I could say I'm excited. I should be.

I don't sit. There's a sideways bookshelf to my left, behind Lori and Beth. I move to it, my fingers grazing over it and leaving lines in the dust. A single book remains. I take it, look at the spine. _How to Win Friends and Influence People. _Lately I'm pretty easy to please when it comes to books – whatever I can get my hands on, I'll read – but this is what my mother would call _an exception_. I put the book down and make my way across the room, to my dad. I sit on the floor next to his chair and lean my head on his leg. He drops a handful of feathers into my lap and I play with them absentmindedly.

A sharp clang scares the hell out of me – I feel Dad jump, too – and has my hand halfway to an arrow. But no, no danger. Just Rick, standing by the fireplace. What? I look harder. A flash of color is just visible in the back of the ash-covered pit – yellow. A yellow can. My empty stomach gets heavy in a bad way and I turn to look at Carl. There's only one can of dog food in front of him now. He makes no move to open it, his eyes on his father. Until they drop to the floor in a way that makes me ache.

Just the owl, then. One owl, eleven people.

Screw the owl. Dad and I should go hunt, this house is right on the edge of a forest and we have plenty of time till nightfall, we could get something if we –

_"Psst."_

T-Dog. Over by a window, standing up. Gripping the iron fireplace poker he's taken to lately. His lips in a thin line.

Damn.

The rest of us are moving now. All this work for nothing, but that ain't anything new. I jump to my feet and grab a bag at random. Dad passes me, his crossbow in hand. He leads the way out, Dad does, through the house and out the back door Maggie and Glenn came through before.

There are walkers out here, closing in. A herd, not huge, but big enough. T-Dog was right to give off the warning, they could give us a fight not worth having. But damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it, I'm tired.

The days are getting warmer, but there are still plenty of brown leaves that crunch under all of us as we jog to the vehicles. I'm heading to the truck, this light-colored truck we got just last month. I reach it, I throw the bag in the back, I open the door, and I check to make sure my dad's gotten to his motorcycle before I slam myself into the safety of the cab. Two seconds later, Carl's jumped in beside me, and then Lori pulls herself into the passenger seat. She turns to give Carl a tight smile. He ignores it. T-Dog finally gets here, turning the key before his door's even closed. We drive off after my dad's bike and the two other cars, and I don't look behind us, I've seen it all before.

I put my quiver in the floorboard, my bow in my lap. My fingers run over the bowstring, my stomach rumbles, and I wish we had gotten to hunt.

Or I wish Rick had let us have the damn dog food.

But this is how it is now.


	2. Welcome to the Prison

We stop a few miles down the road. When a plan goes south, that's what we do, we get the hell out of wherever and we stop a few miles down the road.

This truck's at the end of the caravan. Carl and I jump out as soon as we're stopped, armed, of course. We jog up ahead, to the front car – I've heard its real name, this shiny little car, but I always think of it just as _Silver_. Up here, my dad's getting off his motorcycle, Rick's looking down the road, and the others – not Lori, Lori's still in the truck – are gathering around Silver's hood as Maggie spreads a map over it.

"You're on point," Rick tells Carl, and then his eyes meet mine, therefore giving me the order, too. Not really necessary, since it's long been understood that Carl and me are a packaged deal. I snap my trigger, closing the jaws of the release around my bowstring, before stepping up next to Carl while Rick goes back, back to the others and Silver and the map.

"We got no place left to go," I hear T-Dog say. Maggie talks about getting cut off, not being able to go south. Glenn and Dad talk walker numbers, Hershel says something about a river, it all sounds like stuff I've heard before, again and again. A long time ago, I was all ears towards these kinds of conversations, but now they make me tired. I scan the trees on my side of the road and let the map-talk blend and roll and drone on, like white noise. I see something way off, deep in the green of the brush and the black of the shadows, something that darts, shaking the leaves around it. Probably something worth eating. My mouth waters and I dig my heels into the asphalt, clenching my bow, and saying that I'm _itching _to use it is not strong enough.

My bow. It's a compound bow, with a camouflage paint job, like most things hunters used to use, except maybe for guns. Five months I've had it, and Dad's only let me carry it for the past three weeks. Not because I wasn't good until then – I'm a natural, Dad says, and I am – but because it takes a lot of practice to be really, _really _good. Good enough that you can keep your cool and aim in on a walker as it reaches its arms out towards you, trying to tear you open and –

And . . . the droning's stopped. I twist my head around. Only Hershel and Carol are by Silver now. Beth's down a ways, by the truck, holding an axe. I think I still see Lori's shape behind the truck's windshield. "Where'd everybody go?" I ask lowly, just for Carl to hear.

"Our dads went hunting. The others went to get water from that creek back there." He doesn't ask how I missed this. He's used to me blocking out all the talking . . . Dad went hunting without me. I hate it when he does that.

I swallow. "So where're we goin'? They decide?"

"Uh, my dad said we're gonna double back. To somewhere. Then go west from there."

"We've already been all over the state."

"My dad said we haven't been there."

I sigh. "Aw, screw it. I say you 'n me grab Silver, make our way 'cross to Florida . . . See if Disney World's been overrun . . . Pick up every damn can of dog food we can find on the way."

That last part, that makes him crack a smile, at least.

. . . . .

But we don't double back to somewhere. T-Dog, Maggie, and Glenn come back with jugs of water, dripping with sweat. Then my dad and Rick are back, too, just a minute later. And Rick, he's worked up about something. But in a good way, I think.

Rick says he's found something he wants to show us. A prison.

. . . . .

Getting there is the easy part. It's just a short walk through the woods, and we only have to deal with three walkers on the way. Then we break away from the woods and it comes into view, this building, big and grey, looking kind of how schools used to look, except gloomier. The fence around it is a chain-link fence, yeah, but it's about three times taller than one you could find around a playground or something. There are towers, taller even than the building itself, placed next to the fence and right up in the thick of the building. Inside the fence, in the field that surrounds the prison, there are abandoned cars and there are walkers. Even from far away, I can tell they're all dressed pretty much the same. Prisoners, I guess. They were prisoners, and then the walkers started up, and the prisoners never had a chance, did they? Trapped in there . . .

Doesn't matter.

We make our way down a slope, that's the last leg of the walk. There's a shallow creek with a bridge to cross. Then we're there. We're here. The fence, it's even taller than it looked from a ways away. I'm short, but I ain't _that_ short – this is a tall fence by any standard. And there are these looping, spiky wires at the top . . . Serious business. This fence, it's gotta be good at keeping things in. And out.

Rick brought a pair of wire cutters with him. He shrugs a bag off his shoulder, gets on his knees, and starts in on the fence without a word. This won't get us right into the field, because there are a few layers of fences, so there's one on the outside and one a few yards tighter in. The space these two sections make will let us walk along the edge of the field safely, still separated from the walkers in the field.

But there are walkers out here, too. Right now, Glenn stabs one with a long garden tool, pinning it to the fence, and Maggie crushes the head with a hammer. "Watch the back side!" T-Dog warns.

"Got it," Lori replies, but we're already moving, because Rick has cut through enough of the fence to make a sort of door. He and my dad hold it open and the rest of us go through, fast, watching all around us as we do, because we have to be careful, always. T-Dog's last, and then my dad and Glenn tie the hole together with some orange wire.

Now we have walkers on either side of us. More on the prison side, though, much more.

There's a tower behind us, so the only way to go is forward, along a gravel path about the width of a road. My dad leads the way, running. I go after him, trying to keep up. I'm better at it than I used to be, but I'm still pretty young.

Down the path, around a corner, and Dad pushes an already-open gate open a little wider. It squeaks. The path widens out, melting into a big rectangle. A tower's in here. The rectangle is still protected by fencing, of course, but at the end of the rectangle is a small gate that leads right into the field. Rick drops the bag he's carrying, steps up to this fence, and pants out, "It's perfect."

I'm breathing hard, we all are, but I study the place anyway. Perfect? If we could get in the place, it'd be safe, sure. Safer than anywhere we've been in a while. But getting in is going to be the thing that ain't so safe. The gravel below us keeps going beyond the fencing in front of us. It makes a path into the field and up a hill and to some _more _fencing. To another gate, actually, a gate that I think is the last one before you're actually right by the prison, and I can see walkers past this gate, too. Rick, he's pointing up there now. "If we can shut that gate," he says, "prevent more from filling the yard, we can pick off these walkers. We'll take the field by tonight."

Hershel asks how we'll shut the gate. Glenn says he'll do it, Maggie says no, it's a suicide run. Glenn argues that he's the fastest, but then Rick says no, we won't do that, and he starts dishing out the plan. Rick's good at plans. He says Glenn, Maggie, T-Dog, and Beth will lead as many as they can away from the gate, by distracting them at the edge of the fence, and they'll stab them when they get there. My dad and Carol, they'll go back to the first tower, and they'll shoot from there. And me and Carl and Hershel, we'll go up the tower that's here. Rick's going to run for the gate.

We break.

I lead the way up the stairs, up the tower. The stairway is dark and the air is thick, and moving out into the balcony at the top is like coming up from being underwater. The view from here is, oddly, sort of nice. I can see the top of trees for what feels like miles, and the walkers spread out before me are no threat at all. Not to me, anyway. But my eyes find Rick, waiting below us by the small gate, and I inhale. But Carl's right beside me, so I act like this ain't a big deal. I adjust my quiver, getting my arrows right where they should be.

True to the plan, Glenn and the others lead the walkers off, banging against the fence to get the geeks' attention. I watch as one walker reaches the fence and wraps its fingers around it just as Glenn shoves something through its eye. One down. A lot more to go.

I can see my dad and Carol in the other tower. We're all in place, then. I peer over the side of the balcony and see Lori next to Rick, gripping the gate. They look at each other, and then Lori pulls the gate open and Rick moves forward. A car is on its side right in front of him, giving him a shield for a few seconds, but then he has to go around it, and he's out there, out in the open.

Gunfire all around me, hurting my ears, and I take my first walker down with a sound so small it gets lost in everything else. Six arrows later I've killed six more walkers, but my quiver's empty and I have to switch to my revolver, and I'm not as good with a gun as I used to be, but I do what I can. By that point, though, Rick's almost to the gate, and I turn away from him to pop one walker, and by the time I look back, the gate's closed, the walkers beyond it trapped away, trapped in the cement courtyard around the prison. This field's shut off, and all we have to do is take care of the walkers still here –

There's a tower beside the closed gate, and Rick takes a few shots and disappears into it, reappears at the top a minute later. And then, then it's like shooting fish in a barrel.

_"Light it up!" _I hear my dad yell, and we do.

. . . . .

Hershel and Carl and me meet Carol and Dad at the bottom of our tower. Carol looks happier than I've seen her in a long time. "Fantastic!" she says, grinning at all of us.

My dad's hand touches on my head. "Nice shootin'." And I smile. The four of us, we pass Lori at the gate she let Rick through. Carol asks if she's okay, and Lori, she's smiling, and it's weird to see that look on her these days, but it's nice. "Haven't felt this good in weeks," she says.

The field's littered with bodies. Bodies that don't move, the best kind. I pause, swiping my hand over my forehead. Field's ours. All of this room, with the tall, strong fence around it. _Ours_.

"Oh!" Carol moans as she moves forward. "We haven't had this much space since we left the farm!"

The farm –

– the barn and the RV and a pile of rocks, a falling-apart shed and a dusty piano, a swamp and a walker without a shirt on, and even with all of the walkers I've seen, there are only two I can remember clearly, so clearly –

Movement to my left. I jerk my head around in time to see one of the corpses lift its head up. I go for my revolver, but Glenn's already there. He takes care of it. I hear T-Dog laugh behind me, an excited laugh, victorious. This is good. This is good, this is nice, and I have to focus on _now, _on this good, nice moment.

. . . . .

A canal under the fence to bring us fresh water and our own crops growing in the fertile soil. These are the plans we make that night as we sit around the campfire, filling our stomachs with the meat of rats and crows. Which isn't a bad meal, really. Rick paces around the perimeter time and time again, a steady shape against the thrashing ones beyond the fence. I lie down with my head on Carl's back, watching my dad's shape instead. He's on top of that overturned car by the entry gate, pacing, just him and his crossbow. And Carol, now. Yeah, Carol's brought him food. She's never said it to me straight, but I know she doesn't think he eats as much as he should. Beth's telling Lori that this'll be a good place to have the baby, and I turn my head, and in the fire light, I see Lori's lips come up, just a bit. Another one of her tight smiles.

Carl ducks his head, drawing pictures in the dirt.

Hershel asks Beth to sing some song he says he hasn't heard since her mother died. Maggie says not that one, please. Hershel names another. "Parting Glass," it's called. And Beth says no one wants to hear and Glenn says why not. And why not, really? So Beth sings, and we listen. All of us. Even the crickets get quiet. Not the walkers, but the crickets.

"_Of all the money that e'er I had_

_I've spent it in good company_

_And all the harm e'er I've ever done_

_Alas, it was to none but me_

_And all I've done for want of wit_

_To memory now I can't recall_

_So fill me to the parting glass_

_Good night and joy be with you all."_

I lie on my side and watch the flames flicker. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad and Carol walk up. Maggie starts singing along with Beth and I lose track of the words, listen only to the sound, the tune. This isn't the kind of song I know anything about, and I can't decide if I like it. No, that's not true. I like it, I like that it's music. But it's weird music, for sure.

Rick appears on the other side of Carl. He crouches down and his son hands him food. I crane my neck and see Rick give it to Lori. Of course he does. Does Rick eat any more? He must, but I never see him do it.

It's quiet now. The weird music, it's over. The fire snaps, the crickets go back to business as usual. "Beautiful," Hershel says, like it's a simple fact. Glenn rubs Maggie's leg. They're together, and that makes me happy for some reason. And kind of sad, too, because Rick never does things like that with Lori anymore. Carl and I don't talk about that much, though.

And now Rick's speaking, his voice like gravel. "Better all turn in." He nods. "I'll take watch over there. Got a big day tomorrow."

And that, that makes me sit up and turn around, facing him. "What do you mean?" Glenn asks as I do so, and already I'm uneasy, why . . . ?

Rick looks at Carl, then at the ground, before he answers, "Look, I know we're all exhausted. This was a great win. But we gotta push just a little bit more."

My hand decides to go to my bow. I pull it to me and hold it with both hands, propping it in my lap and leaning my head on it, watching the ground, listening to Rick. Not liking a word he says.

"Most of the walkers are dressed as guards and prisoners. Looks like this place fell pretty early. Could mean the supplies may be intact. They'd have an infirmary. A commissary."

"An armory?" my dad asks.

"That'd be outside the prison itself, but not too far away. Warden's offices would have info on the location . . . Weapons, food, medicine. This place could be a _gold mine._"

I need to wax my bowstring. I have Vaseline somewhere, but most of our bags are still with the vehicles, now parked outside of the gate. I run my fingers over the frays, willing them smooth, as Hershel says, "We're dangerously low on ammo. We'll run out before we make a dent."

So let's not do this, Rick. Let's rest.

"That's why we have to go in there. Hand-to-hand."

One of _my_ hands leaves my bow. It comes to my mouth, my knuckle meets my teeth, and my teeth go at the skin.

"After all we've been through," says Rick, "We can handle it, I _know _it . . . These assholes don't stand a chance."

It's quiet.

Rick stands and walks away. The air's heavy now. After a second, my dad steps over to me and uses his boot to nudge my hand from my teeth.

. . . . .

T-Dog snores and Beth talks in her sleep. Sometimes Glenn looks like his eyes are open even when he's out cold. Carl moves a lot and Carol barely moves at all. These are the kinds of nighttime behaviors you learn about people you live with. The kinds of things that you stop noticing until you can't sleep one night. Or a lot of nights.

An hour after Rick's speech, I'm still up. I lay down for a while, closed my eyes, did everything I was supposed to do. But I knew sleep wouldn't come. I've gotten to where I can tell. So now I'm sitting up. I have my arms wrapped around my knees and I watch the fire. My dad watches the fire when he's thinking. I thought about reading, I've probably got a book tucked away in one of the bags, somewhere, but I don't feel like reading, really. I feel like thinking.

Carl rolls over. He's on the other side of the fire, so I can see his face pretty well. Sleeping and without his hat, he looks younger than he is. More like he was when I first met him. But he and I both have grown a lot since then, in a lot of ways. He has faint signs of stubble, I have a bra strap constantly digging into my skin, and we both put walkers down by ourselves. We would never have dreamed of doing that, back when we were playing tag at the survivors' camp in Atlanta. Or sneaking into the swamps at Hershel's farm . . .

I've figured out why that song seemed so strange. "Parting Glass," I mean. Thing is, my mother would never sing a song like that. Wasn't her style. "Piano Man," was her favorite song. Mom, she liked Billy Joel, and she really liked rock. That was one of the few things she had in common with Merle, actually. My Uncle Merle taught me the lyrics to "Highway to Hell" when I was four, and I got caught singing it in Sunday School the next weekend, and my mother was embarrassed and chewed me out all the way home. But later that night, I overheard her singing it while she was making dinner. It blew my mind.

I have a picture of Mom, so I won't forget her face. Can't quite remember what Merle looked like, though. But their voices, their voices are both clear. Hers, all soft and smooth, and his, raspy and drawling. I hear Mom singing and Merle laughing better than either of them just talking, though. And Mom's piano, I definitely hear Mom playing the piano –

Something hits me from behind, wrapping its way over my shoulders and around my neck. "You should be sleepin'."

I reach up and take handfuls of the poncho now tossed over me. My dad picked it up a few months ago, and I like it, for all it's kind of scratchy. "Maybe I am sleepin' and you're just dreamin'."

I hear him snort. We're ten feet off from the others, who are as close as they can get to the campfire. My dad, he likes to be a little ways off when he can be, and tonight I felt like sleeping close to him. I'm not so crazy about being away from the others, but ten feet off is still a lot of progress from how we were eight months ago, living out of sight from the others, at the very edge of Hershel's farm. It was lonely back then, though I didn't realize it was lonely until after the farm was a thing of the past.

Before I really know what's happening, Dad's sitting beside me. He takes the bow and arrow I have in my lap and sets them off to the side. "Don't be worryin' about tomorrow." Special gentle voice. He uses that more often than he used to, which I think is a good thing.

How can I not be worrying, though?

Hand-to-hand. They've done it before. _They _meaning my dad, Rick, T-Dog, Maggie, and Glenn. They're the ones who'll be going in, they'll be right in there, right in the middle of the walker-filled prison, putting down corpses the way they do. The way they've done a million times. But not with so many. Past that last fence blocking the prison from us – and us from the prison – dozens of walkers stumble around. Groaning, snarling, eager to eat something besides the rats they must be surviving on. Human flesh has to be a step up, after all.

"I ain't," I say, wishing for my bow back. My hands feel empty. "I just . . . I think we should wait a few days. Think we should rest."

That's when Dad starts rubbing my neck. He's got good timing, I'll give him that. "Ain't our first rodeo, Syd. We'll be fine."

"Yeah, I know."

But I don't know. And Dad sighs, probably because he knows I don't know and fact is, he don't know, either.

A minute passes, and I don't look at him, and finally he gives my neck one last squeeze and pushes himself into a crouching position. "I'm gonna go take over watch for Rick," he whispers, scanning the field before eyeing me again. He wraps his poncho tighter around me. "Try to sleep."

It's a lost cause, but I lie back down as Dad stands. I hear him sling his crossbow on his back and walk off. When I can't hear his footsteps anymore, I reach for my bow. I draw it in close and wait for morning, trying to remember the second verse of "Piano Man."


	3. Infiltration

_Now, John at the bar is a friend of mine . . . He gives me my drinks for free . . ._

Or maybe it's Jim at the bar. Jim, John, Jim. I knew a Jim once.

Anyway, those are the first two lines of the second verse, I've figured them out by sunrise. Can't remember what's right after that, but a few lines down it's _He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me" . . . As the smile ran away from his face . . ._

I'll remember the rest later. For now, we have work to do.

. . . . .

I flip the pipe in the air and catch it without looking. My eyes are too busy watching the five of them, Dad and Rick and Maggie and Glenn and T-Dog, who are over by the gate Rick closed just yesterday. The same gate that Hershel's about to open. I flip the pipe again, meeting Carl's eyes now, and then there's the painful shriek of the gate being thrown open and our five people – my dad and Carl's dad and three friends we love – are on the other side of it, Hershel's closing them in, and I kick the fence in front of me, hard, and scream, _"Hey!" _

Me and the others run along the fence, banging on it as we go, bringing as many walkers as we can over to us, away from the five, who are moving forward steadily, keeping the usual circle formation that lets them watch every side and guard one another's back. Some walkers are moving toward those of us outside the fence, but not enough. Our first walker reaches Hershel and he puts it down, and two more are close, but there are just _not enough coming_. I yell and cling to the fence, gritting my teeth, looking between the walkers and our people, who keep moving forward, weapons at work, blood flying, walkers falling. Maggie slices a head open. My dad stabs one and it drops. A walker's getting close to me, its eyes are on me. "That's right, asshole, c'mon!" I tell it, and it snarls back, and as its hands grip the fencing I shove my pipe through its eye. There's an explosion of red stuff and now the used-to-be man is no more. Screaming all around me, the clanging of fence, the others trying to lure more walkers over, and I yell some more, too, but I keep glancing back at the group on the inside. They're making good progress, they're all the way at the other end of the courtyard now, nothing but dead walkers behind them.

I have to stab another geek, and then there are no more walkers left in this part of the courtyard. Our five, they're pressed up against a wall – no, just four of them, my dad's at the end closest to us. His crossbow is up. Can't tell why, he's looking into an area of the courtyard I can't see from here, but he starts to move forward, slowly, and I see him shoot, but then he backs off, fast, and something's wrong, and Rick jumps forward with his machete high. I get just a quick look of a tall walker with some sort of helmet on its head, and then T-Dog shoves that walker away, and now they're all behind a wall, my dad and everyone, out of sight.

"I can't see them – can you see them?" I hear Lori ask Carol breathlessly.

"They're back _there_ . . ."

I slam my pipe into the fence and start pacing behind the others. At one point, I hear Rick yell my dad's name, and I can't tell anything by it, not a thing. I catch Carol looking back at me and I look away, cracking my fingers, gazing into the empty courtyard.

One minute goes by. Two. Hershel pats Beth's back, Carol and Lori murmur to each other, Lori rubs her belly. I pace. Carl stares straight ahead. I pace some more, faster, and then they're back in view, all of them, all five of them, my dad included, and they're bloody and dirty but they're all fine, just fine, and I spring back to the fence. Courtyard's clear, then, at least this part.

But then they stop. Rick talks, and I see my dad pointing in a direction to my right and then at a walker on the ground behind them. I can't hear what they're saying, even though I've got good ears, and now, now Rick's leading them off, off to our left, and they don't come over and tell us _why_. They jog all the way to what looks like a cage, and Rick opens a door and I see that it's not a cage, it's something that leads to a door that leads into the building. They're hard to see when they get behind the caging, and then I can't see them at all. The last thing I hear is the wail of a heavy door being rolled open and closed.

"Son of a bitch . . ." I murmur, and not even Carol gets on to me.

Fifteen minutes, at least. That's how long we have to wait, out in the hotter-every-day sun, twiddling our thumbs because the five of them couldn't take the time to run over and tell us the plan. Fifteen minutes of basically silence, very heavy silence, and then that door wails again and Glenn and Maggie appear from the caged place. Just the two of them. But as Maggie jogs over to the gate, she calls, "We're clear."

We're clear. Everyone's fine. I feel like I've been holding my breath for an hour, but everyone's fine.

Our vehicles are parked outside the fence. We get our bags, and I get my bow, and then we go into the prison, following Maggie and Glenn across the courtyard and the bodies, into the caged place. Up a short set of stairs is a big door, and Glenn pulls it open, and he leads the way into a dark, cool room. The only light in here comes from a giant, barred window over to my right. A few stairs lead down to a trash-covered floor and two round tables with the chairs connected to them. Across from me, another set of stairs, longer, leads up to a small, windowed room above our heads, and a balcony connects to that and wraps around the right side of the big room. The air is thick with the scent of decaying flesh, but that's really pretty normal for any place we hide out in.

Glenn and Maggie don't stop here. There's an opening in the far right corner of the room, with a door made only of iron bars swinging open, welcoming us in. Just as we're crossing through this opening, a body falls from above and lands in front of T-Dog, who bends down and starts dragging it away.

This room's narrower than the other one, but it's long, with more of those barred windows to my right. To my left are what I know to be cells – little rooms with bars for doors, all of which are open. Directly in front of me there's a staircase that leads to more cells up above. My dad's up there now, I can see him looking around, he's fine. And now Rick's walking down the stairs. "What do you think?"

"Home sweet home," Glenn says from in front of me. Grudgingly.

"For the time being."

"Is it secure?" Lori asks. There's trash all over this floor, too. Trash and dirt and other unknown things. I poke a bundle of paper with my toe and something scuttles away, disappearing under a different trash pile and not showing its face again.

"This cell block is," Rick answers.

The C Block. There's a sign on the wall that calls this place the C Block.

"What about the rest of the prison?" says Hershel. We're all grouped together in the center of the room, none of us entirely sure what to do here.

Rick comes to a stop in front of us, hands on hips, nodding a little, the way he usually does when he's thinking. "In the morning, we'll find the cafeteria and infirmary."

"We . . . sleep in the cells?" Beth asks uncertainly.

"Found keys on some guards . . . Daryl has a set, too."

"I ain't sleepin' in no cage," Dad says from above. I look up to see him eyeing the top of the stairs. "I'll take the perch."

I shift my backpack. My dad can do what he wants – disgusting or not, the cells have beds in them. A bed sounds nice. Very nice.

Maggie and Glenn have claimed a space, Carol's heading up the stairs, and Carl's disappeared from my side. I look over to see him following Beth into a cell.

"Pretty gross," Beth's saying as I arrive at the door. She puts her bags down, studying the bunk bed against the wall.

"Yeah, remember the storage units?" Carl says, and _I _sure as hell do. Unfortunately. No, he's right, these cells aren't as bad as that. And they're safer . . .

Beth settles onto the bottom bed, bouncing a little. "It's actually – it's actually comfortable." She smiles at me, then Carl. "Check it out."

I swear to God, if he gets on the bed with her –

But no, he steps up and feels the top bunk.

I lean on the doorframe just as someone steps up behind me, then in front of me. Hershel. "You find a cell yet?" he asks Carl. Pointedly enough that I have to hide a little smile.

"Yeah," Carl says. Lying. "I was just, uh, just making sure Beth was safe."

Hershel only nods. He keeps looking at Carl until Carl gets the picture. "C'mon, Syd," he says, edging around Hershel. I stand up straight, and Carl pauses long enough in the doorway to look back at Beth and say, "See ya tomorrow."

We find a cell a few doors down from Beth's, right under the stairway that splits the room. It ain't clean, but it's the cleanest one I've seen yet. "Think this'll do?" I ask him, already setting my bag on the floor, crouching down to dig for my sleeping bag.

"Yeah. You want the top bunk?"

That makes me stop. I look over my shoulder at him, raising my eyebrows. "You wanna share the cell?"

The single window the cell has means that the light in here is pretty dim, but not so much that I can't see Carl's face go a shade too red. "Uh . . . I thought we would."

Well. It's not like Carl and I haven't shared close quarters before, but never in a room to ourselves, unless you count the thicket, which I don't. We stare at one another for a couple of seconds.

Then, "Yo, Carl. Go find another cell."

My dad's appeared, leaning on the doorframe in the same way I did when Carl was with Beth. Carl looks from Dad to me but doesn't ask questions, just gives me a little wave, ducking his head and leaving. Me, I nod at him before ducking my own head and pulling out my sleeping bag, which I toss onto the bottom bunk while pretending my dad's eyes aren't drilling into me. I'm certain that he's going to say something about Carl, or ask something about him, or tell me something about him, but he doesn't do any of that. Which I love him for. "You good?"

"Yeah."

"'Kay." He gestures at the bed. "Sleep tonight, alright?"

I nod and he leaves. I can hear the others, but I have more privacy than I've had in a long time. I spread my sleeping bag over the bed and throw my backpack on the top bunk. I take my bow and my quiver from my shoulder and lean them against the wall right beside the bed, with an arrow already nocked. I consider unstrapping the release from my wrist but decide not to. I'm not quite that comfortable yet. But I do put my revolver and the knife I keep at my waist on the top bunk, and after thinking about it, I even take off my denim jacket – with my second knife – and toss it up there, too. I leave my boots on. The others are settling in, their voices drifting to whispers and then nothing at all. I lie on top of my sleeping bag and watch my doorway until exhaustion and maybe something like peace comes over me and I manage to catch some sleep.

But not before thinking about Carl.

. . . . .

Dale's death. That's what started it. That's what pushed Carl and me into becoming the pair we are now. Because when you cause someone to die together, that's always there, that's always connecting you. Binding you. I didn't know it then, but whenever I think about Carl, that day is always floating on some layer in my mind.

It continued from there, from the swamps and Dale and my first walker and my dad's stolen gun. I accepted Carl as my friend, which was a big step for me. But then it got to where it was more than just friendship, because my dad and Rick agreed that the only way Carl and I should be allowed in combat was if we were in combat side-by-side. They figured two of us equaled one adult (really, I think we equal a lot more, but whatever). So Carl was no longer just my friend. He was now my partner, the one whose job it was to have my back. Whose job it _is_. The one who can read my movements in a fight and know exactly what I'm planning, what he should do in turn. And I'm the same way with him.

Things went even further than that, though, after I got us lost.

It was early February. My dad let me go hunting without him for the first time, only because – whether he wanted to admit it or not – he was really sick, so sick that Hershel and Carol weren't about to let him through the door of the cabin our group was holed up in. So I headed out, and of course Carl came with me. Things went fine for a while. Together we put four walkers down, and – even though my bow was still kind of new to me – I ended up with a rabbit and several doves tucked into my belt. It was a pretty good day.

And then it started to snow. Not a flurry, a _blizzard_, out of nowhere, a freak of nature. Too thick for us to try and make our way back. But I was stupid and tried anyway. All that served to do was make both of us extremely disoriented when the snow finally stopped, late in the night. We didn't know where we were, and me, I ain't the type to get lost. It was just that bad.

We found a sort of thicket, though. Tangled plants – most of them thorny – made this little makeshift hut of a thing we could slide into on our bellies, and then have enough room to sit up in. Snow had gotten through to the ground, but not much. We brushed what we could to the edge of the hut and managed to start a small fire with some dry branches that had been shielded by others. We decided our best bet was to stay there and wait to be found. So, for the next two days, we lived off canteens and the squirrel and dove, listening to walkers shamble by, and really, it wasn't that bad.

But then Carl got sick. The same thing my dad had – a fever, a cough, a really bad headache. And thing was, Hershel had my dad on some kind of medicine. I found out later that the sickness was really not that dangerous at all, even without meds, just very uncomfortable, a nuisance. But in that thicket, with Carl hacking his lungs out and the smoke from the fire we couldn't afford to put out not helping matters, I was sure he was going to die. So on the third morning, against Carl's protests, I left the shelter and set out to find our cabin. It was miserable. I was cold, I was so incredibly lost, and I had to try and be quiet in the snow, which is about as easy as walking on water. I met every lone walker the state of Georgia has to offer, I swear – it was only by an act of God or whatever that I didn't run into a herd. Hours passed, and I did my best not to go in circles, but I got to the point where I was anyway, because I was tired and coughing, coming down with the same thing Carl had. I began dragging my feet, bringing more walkers my way, and I put an arrow in all of them but I was getting to the point where I couldn't give much more and I knew it, and the sun was just starting to set when I met with three walkers, took two of them down, had my bow knocked from my hands by the last one and was feeling its breath on my arm when an arrow pierced its head from behind, and then my dad yanked the thing off of me and held me tight, muttering fiercely. He felt so warm. Rick and Maggie were with him. I did my best to describe where Carl was, but my head was spinning at this point, and I sort of remember Maggie leading me back to the cabin, and I sort of remember Carol hugging me and crying, and I sort of remember my fingers stinging in a bowl of hot water, chicken noodle soup that tasted like love, a pill scratching its way down my throat, but what I really remember is my dad and Rick showing up in the middle of the night. Carl was in Rick's arms. Safe.

Dad made me go to bed then. Carl was going to be fine, just like my dad was, just like I would be.

I didn't save Carl's life, really. The sickness wouldn't have killed him – he's too tough for that – and the others would have found us eventually. But I risked my life because I _thought _I had to save his. And after those two days together, and after thinking that his life rested totally and completely in my hands – well, something like that is sort of like something like Dale's death. It's deep and you can't just forget it.

And so that's how Carl and me became what we are now. That's how he's come to understand things not even my dad gets. That's how he's gotten to where he expects to share a room with me when we get the chance to.

But I'm not sure I like that. Because he'd never even dream of expecting to share a room with Beth. No matter how much he might like to.


	4. Unbalanced

"Hey, Carol?" I say to her the next morning, plucking my Vaseline-slick bowstring as my friend steps over Carl and me, who are lounging on the stairs and thinking of reasons why we shouldn't have to clean. "Can I go huntin'?"

"I don't know. Think your dad'd let you?"

"He don't need to know." I'm only half-joking. I'm losing my mind here in the C Block. But Carol just laughs a little and continues up the stairs. I listen to her footsteps until I'm sure she's in the cell she's sharing with Lori, and then my eyes fall to Carl, on the step below me. "I hate this."

"It's like my dad said. If something happens to them, you and me are the only fighters we'll have left."

I scowl. "Nothin's gonna happen to them." _Them _meaning the five from yesterday, plus Hershel, who insisted he come along as they clear more of the prison, as they find the caf, the infirmary, all the other useful places, if there are any others to be found.

"Something _could _happen, Syd," Carl feels the need to remind me.

"Yeah, well, it won't . . . Wish you'd quit talkin' like that."

So he drops it, and I cradle my bow, thinking back to just twenty minutes ago, back to watching the six of them equip themselves with the new armor and weapons they'd gotten from around the prison, mostly off the bodies of the guard-walkers. Grenades, helmets. Carl tried on a helmet, actually, only to have Rick take it from him. That's when Carl and I found out that we weren't going. _Hershel_ was going – and Hershel's almost never on the front lines – but Carl and I would be staying here. You ask me, the look that passed between Rick and Lori right before Rick announced this had something to do with it. Those two may not talk much anymore, but they sure look at each other all the time. And a lot of things can come across with just your eyes.

Lori . . .

I crane my head back to make sure she's not hanging over the balcony above us. My voice lowers as I press into a talk neither of us will enjoy. "Talk to your mom lately?

I feel Carl tense. Well, I don't know, _feel _might not be the right word. We're not touching, but something about him changes, hardens, and a tiny shift happens in the air. And he doesn't answer, Carl. Which means _no_. And also _let's not talk about it._

I talk anyway, in spite of my being not so good with conversations like these. "Probably mean a lot to her if you would."

He pulls his hat down over his face. I roll my eyes, can't help it. "Fine," I say, attempting to tighten an already-tight screw on my bow, "Forget I said anything."

We talk about a lot, Carl and me. But there are tender subjects, and Lori's one of them. And Shane. And that night when we left the farm in flames, the night Rick killed Shane and Carl put down Shane the walker. His first. And how, ever since then, Carl's been distancing himself from Lori more and more, so much that sometimes, and always for just a second, I forget that he still has two parents, and that's one thing he and I just don't have in common. No matter how he feels about her, his mother's alive.

My mother's one of the tender subjects, too.

I raise my bow, pull the string back, feel the tension and the power I hold in my hands. Enjoy it. "Think I might need to bring up my draw weight. Arm wrestle me?"

"No way."

I grin, guiding the string back to its natural position. "Why, scared of the day I beat ya?"

Just under the brim of his hat, I see a smile try to fight its way out. "You're never gonna beat me."

"Then arm wrestle me. I've been doing pushups when I can, I need to see if I've gotten stronger –"

The door in the next room clangs open.

They shouldn't be back this soon.

"He's losing too much blood –"

High pitched scraping from over there, and Carl and me are on our feet, on the floor, and my heart's dropped and racing, Beth's rushed out of her cell –

"Open the door! It's Hershel!"

Rick, on the other side of the iron bars separating the two rooms. Rick, with a stretcher in front of him, a stretcher with Hershel on it, and I'm across the floor beside Carl as he reaches through the bars and unlocks the door with his dad's keys and lets them all in, his dad and Maggie, and Beth screams, and Glenn's here, too, and Carol, and Hershel's on a stretcher, oh Hershel, blood, blood –

I stumble backwards as they wheel the stretcher into a cell, fast, those wheels screeching and everybody talking and yelling, and it's _loud_. A harsh slam – T-Dog shutting the door, leaving himself on the outside. I open my mouth to ask him what's going on, and where my dad is, but then Dad himself appears at the door just as T-Dog darts away from it, darts around the corner. My fingers go through the bars and grasp Dad's vest. I think I ask what happened, or something. Dad's in a hurry, and I don't know why, I just know his gaze is above me and he squeezes my hand but then pulls it from him, and meets my eyes long enough to tell me to stay here, just stay here, and then he's gone, gone after T-Dog, and I'm alone, alone with some part of the world falling to pieces behind me.

Then I'm by the cell, watching from the outside, seeing what I can see through everyone else. They're packed in there tight. They're moving Hershel to the bed. Hershel's unconscious. Beth's asking if he's going to die, and there's a squishing sound, a red-and-white towel, gasps, Carol by Hershel's legs. Leg. Only one leg. Hershel's missing a leg. A ragged stump where his knee used to meld with his shin is all that's left. A stump and blood. Lots of blood. Carol needs bandages. We've used all we have. Carol says to get more. Get anything. Lori tells Carl to go bring the towels from somewhere, somewhere. Carl nearly runs into me. He says my name. I say I'm fine, I tell him to go, he runs again, up the stairs, and now I can't see Hershel anymore. I've backed up against the wall on the opposite side of the room, far away from the cell, my palms and back flat against the rough wall, because somewhere between this being Hershel and this being an old man covered in blood and this being about a missing limb, things have gotten a little too personal for me and I hate people blood, I hate real, living people blood, I hate it. I want to sit on the ground but don't. Can't let myself sink that low. But I have to fight to keep my legs steady and good, I admit it, I have to fight.

I hear words from the cell. There's talk of starting a fire. Cauterizing, oh God. But no, Carol says no, the shock could kill him and it won't help much anyway. Carol, she knows some of this stuff because she's supposed to help Hershel when Lori has the baby. But what if Hershel can't – what if –

The words _too much blood. _

There's yelling from the next room and it's not Dad or T-Dog, it's not – that doesn't make sense –

To the stairs, to my bow. My quiver's already on my shoulder, my release on my wrist. The light weight of my weapon in my hand balances something inside of me I didn't know was off. I'm bolting for the door when I hear, "Sydney, no."

I stop automatically, because it's an order from Rick, and I whirl to see him standing just outside of Hershel's new cell, along with Glenn. "What was that?" I ask sharply.

"Prisoners."

"Living ones?"

"Yes." His words are short, and he's speaking to Glenn now. Whispering. "Do not leave his side. If he dies, you need to be there for that."

_If he dies. _Hershel. If Hershel dies.

Glenn, his face is odd. Not hard, not soft, not sad or anything, really. Not any _one_ thing. A lot of things.

Rick sees. "Think you can do this? Maggie'll be there."

Glenn –

My throat and tongue are dry, but my voice still sounds like me. "I'll do it. If I have to. If he . . ." I can't finish that sentence and so I just nod instead. They'll understand, of course.

But Glenn shakes his head at me. "No, Syd, it's okay." And to Rick: "I got it."

His voice is too raspy.

"I can bring T in here –"

"I got it."

So Rick he runs for the door, and Carl's suddenly behind him with the keys, and he locks the door as Rick disappears around the bend, and I move forward as Carl moves back and I nock an arrow and listen, but not to the _too much blood _talk, I listen to the yells in the next room. My dad's the first one I hear.

"There ain't nothin' for ya here, why don't you go back to your own sandbox and –"

"Hey, hey, _hey!" _Rick. "Everyone relax, there's no need for this."

"How many of you are in there?" A strange voice asks. This voice sends chills all through me, and not just because the tone sounds less-than-friendly, but because it's a _strange voice. _And my ears don't hear those anymore. Ever.

"Too many for you to handle," Rick answers, and that little exchange pretty much sets the mood for the rest of the conversation.

. . . . .

Dad and T-Dog and Rick take the prisoners outside to see the courtyard. To prove this new world's real. When I hear the door shut, I trudge back over to the steps, rubbing my face. Carl steps out of the cell-turned-hospital and together we lean on the stair railing, too amped up to sit down.

"What'd you hear?"

"There're at least five of 'em," I say. "And at least one of 'em has a gun. They've been in the cafeteria for two-hundred-ninety-somethin' days. They didn't know . . . Hell, Carl, they asked for a _cell phone._" He doesn't laugh and neither do I. "They're goin' out to the courtyard now. Wanna see the walkers, 'cause I don't think they really believe it . . . That's the last I heard."

Beth leaves the Hershel cell. Her eyes are red, her face is puffy, it's the whole works. I lower my gaze when she catches it and I wait until she's gone before I speak to Carl again. "I didn't hear, what – what exactly happened to Hershel?"

"He got bit. My dad cut his leg off. Thought it might keep him from turning . . . But now he won't wake up."

If Rick didn't cut the leg off in time, Hershel will die and become a walker. If Rick cut the leg off in time but the stump bleeds out, Hershel will die and become a walker. If Hershel dies and becomes a walker, Glenn will have to put him down, unless he can't – he says he can, but _if_ he can't – then _I_ will, I said I would. I can't even go into the cell, and yet I've pledged to put Hershel down if it comes to it. Which was stupid.

I brush past Carl. "I'm gonna go read somethin'."

I read and I shoot. Those are my things. I did both before the walkers came – didn't shoot with a bow, but still – but now both practices are lifelines, not just time killers. And since I can't go anywhere to shoot right now, that means my only option is to sink into a storyline that can crash and burn as much as it likes without affecting my life one bit. I'll only be an observer who can close the book and leave the feelings behind whenever she pleases.

In my cell, I unzip my backpack and dig out my books. The number's grown and shrunk over the past months, but I have four at the moment: A novel of Stephen King short stories, a supposed thriller the old world would probably sell for three bucks, _On the Banks of Plum Creek _by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and a gluten-free cookbook I will never, ever use but can't get rid of because it reminds me of my mother.

I go through each of these books, reading – rereading, really – each one of them for about five minutes, and that's what it takes for me to accept that I will not be able to stop thinking about Hershel, or the prisoners, or my dad, and I need to suck it the hell up and get over to that cell in case the worst happens and I have to be the one to –

My hands crush _Plum Creek._

Where the hell are my dad and the others?

I stack the books on the top bunk and press my head into the mattress up there, breathing. In, out, in, out, simplest thing in the world, but sometimes it gets hard, anyway.

Hershel can't die. He can't. I love Hershel, and Maggie and Beth love Hershel, and this group, we don't lose people anymore. Not since that last night on the farm. We've done everything to prevent it and _none of us deserve to die. _

I hear our door open at the same time T-Dog's familiar voice says, "Food's here," and relief washes over me, but then I come out and see that T-Dog – his arms filled with two packed boxes – is with only one other person, and it's Rick, and I wait for my dad to appear after them, but he doesn't. T-Dog lists the food they have for a damn near drooling Carl and I don't hear any of it, because I've noticed that Rick's hands are covered in blood –

It's Hershel's blood. Hershel's. Not Dad's.

Deep breaths.

"A lot more where this came from . . ." T-Dog promises as he carries the armload across the room, to a cell near the back. Rick, his own hands full with bags of corn, stops to ask Lori and Glenn about Hershel.

"Bleeding is under control and no fever," Lori replies, and she sounds good here, but then her voice turns to a whisper. " . . . But his breath is labored and his pulse is way down and he hasn't opened his eyes yet."

Rick gives Glenn his handcuffs and says to put them on Hershel. Rick's not taking any chances. He hands the corn off to T-Dog and Carl, and I – calmly – ask, "Rick, where's my dad?"

"He's fine, Sydney. He's with the prisoners."

He's fine. Rick and T-Dog left him alone with a group of most likely dangerous strangers, _convicts_, no less, but he's _fine_.

"Yeah, uh, what about those prisoners?" Lori's stepped up next to me, and by the way her arm is sort of guiding Rick to the side without actually touching him, I'm guessing I'm not meant to be a part of this conversation. So I step away, and for a moment I'm in between Lori and Rick, Carl and T-Dog, and the cell Hershel's in, and I feel like I'm floating in a dangerous sea and I just want to head for my lifeboat, my cell, the books I don't want to read.

I'm better than that, though. I am. That's why I make my heavy boots move me over to Hershel's cell and I edge into the doorway. Only Carol and Glenn are in here with him right now. Maggie's probably gone to wherever Beth is.

A long time ago, I had a little toy horse made of wax. My mother said not to play with it, because it was pretty fragile, but I played with it anyway and its leg ended up snapping off, and then that horse that had once looked so brave and noble was broken and just not the same anymore. And that's Hershel now. Hershel's broken. Not the same anymore. The towel wrapped around his leg is soaked in blood. He's pale. He doesn't look alive. He's breathing, I can see it in his chest, but like Lori said, it's shallow. Barely there.

I'm overwhelmed by the emptiness in my left hand. I forgot my bow back in my cell, and with each second that passes in here with Hershel, I miss it more. My fingers go to the revolver in my belt, just for a light touch . . .

Breath on my shoulder. Carl's next to me. He gives me a look that says we should talk, and so I give Glenn a parting glance and follow Carl to the cell that I guess is now food storage. We pass Lori on the way, but Rick and T-Dog are gone again.

I look over the two boxes of food, see labels for vegetables and meat and soup, but my stomach's only reaction is to give a little twist that means _Food Not Welcome. _"What's up?"

"My mom wants us to organize the food."

I sigh. "Oh, good. As long as we're doing something really important."

Carl checks outside the door before stepping closer to me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to really keep eye contact and the brim of his hat is almost touching my forehead. "Let's go find the infirmary," he says. "You and me."

I shut my eyes. "Carl . . ."

"Hershel needs medical supplies, Sydney. Our dads and T-Dog are clearing a cell block for the prisoners –"

"Wait, what?"

"My dad told my mom that they're helping them clear out a cell block of their own."

I'd assumed we'd make the prisoners leave . . . "They'll be living right beside us? Here in the prison?"

"Look, that doesn't matter right now," Carl says impatiently, and he's wrong, but he doesn't pause to hear my opinion. "Hershel's best chance is if we get to that infirmary and see what we can find."

I shake my head, staring at the ground, playing with my release trigger. _Snap, click. Snap, click._ I want to say no. We go for that infirmary, we'll meet with walkers. Maybe a few, maybe a lot. Maybe more than we can handle.

But if we don't go and Hershel dies . . .

_Dale. _

It's different, I know it's different. But then, it's not.

"We can't tell 'em we're goin'," I say.

"Of course not."

I sigh again. "I'll get my bow."


	5. Alone

It's nothing. It really isn't. A forty-five minute round trip, tops. Carl and I slip out of the doorway at the back of the cell block and into lightless corridors, creeping along, his flashlight scoping out the hall. It's my turn to take lead, so of the three walkers we see, I end up shooting two. But _three walkers. _That's it. The infirmary is the fourth door we try, and there's not much, but we clean it out, get bandages, disinfectant, other stuff we don't recognize but grab anyway. We stuff full the little bag Carl thought to bring, and then we navigate our way back, following spray paint signs we left along the way. No more walkers. And then we're back in the cell block, just that quick and simple.

It's the easiest run I've ever done, ever _heard _of, and maybe that's why I can't quite contain my smile when we walk up to the Hershel cell, with Glenn eyeing us warily. Why I've pretty much forgotten that what Carl and I did could have been very dangerous. Why when Carl drops the bag in the middle of the cell and the others gasp at what it holds, I lift my chin and cross my arms in pride. And why it's a hard crash back to reality when, after Lori asks where we got this and Carl answers, she looks at him with a positively horrified expression. "You two went by yourselves?" she chokes out. Carol's too focused to be a part of this, her hands moving rapidly over Hershel's leg, and Maggie's sifting through the bag like it contains pure gold, but Lori, Lori doesn't seem able to move normally. On her knees by the bed, she's all still and stiff.

My arms uncross. I lower my chin. But Carl offhandedly answers, "Yeah," and now even Maggie turns to him with wide eyes, like she's just now understanding.

"Are you _crazy_?" gasps Lori.

"No big deal. We killed three walkers."

Lori gapes for a moment before sweeping her arm over Hershel. "Alright – do you see this?"

My eyes go to him, to Hershel and his stump, and then they go to the floor.

"_This _was with the whole group."

"We needed supplies," I finally speak up, but it's not good, my voice isn't as certain as Carl's, and I don't try to say anymore, but he picks up where I left off.

"Yeah, so we got them!"

Lori's close to yelling now. "And I appreciate that, but – "

_"Then get off my back!"_

"Carl!"

That was Beth, soft-spoken Beth, with her face still stained by tears for her maybe-dying father. From her place on the floor by her sister and the stupid precious bag, she says, "She's your mother! You can't talk to her like that!"

A very heavy moment goes by. I watch the back of Carl's head.

Lori starts, calmer now, "Look, I think that it's great that you wanna help –"

Carl runs out. I watch him go, and then I drop into a crouch, so I'm eye-to-eye with Beth. "I know you're hurting, and I'm sorry. But you can't talk to _him _like that." And then I run out, too.

I find him in his cell, and he's not crying. I haven't seen Carl cry since we lost the farm. But I can tell he's not good, the way he's sitting on the bed, slouching, his hands in fists, his hat covering most of his face.

I'm not good at this. Talking, I mean. But he knows that, so the pressure's kind of off as I step into the cell and lean on the bedframe. "Look, Beth . . . That was a bitchy thing for her to say –"

He's on his feet in an instant. "Don't say that about her!"

The few words I had formed in my head die before even getting their shot at possibly sounding like something kind of right. Carl's fists are still formed, and they're tight. And me, I end up doing this huff of a breath that's sort of like a chuckle but not really, because there's nothing happy about it. "You – I just –" I point in the direction of the others, but my tongue, my mind, they all fail me. Carl's eyes are sharp and poisonous, like rattlesnake fangs, and finally I just let this furious growl loose from my throat, spinning on my heel as the sound escapes through clenched teeth, and I stomp back to my own cell, where I slam down my bow and throw one of my books against the wall as hard as I can. It doesn't help much.

. . . . .

_"Somebody help! Somebody – please help!"_

Those are the next words I hear, after some amount of unimportant time has passed. It's a scream and it's Beth's, and me and my bow are at the Hershel cell in a matter of seconds. Carl's already there. Maggie and Beth are inside, staring at Hershel.

His chest isn't moving any more. At all.

Lori breezes by Carl and me. She bends over Hershel, puts her hand on his forehead, listens to his chest. Beth whimpers. I don't hear a thing from Maggie. Lori presses her lips on Hershel's, breathing air into him. She pumps on his chest. Wake up, Hershel, wake up. Lori mutters to herself, or to Hershel, or maybe I'm not thinking straight and Lori hasn't said a thing at all. My bow's with me but I feel off inside again.

Then Hershel's arms shoot up and the one not cuffed goes around Lori and there's shrieking and screaming and a man's shout and Lori moving and then she's on the other side of the room, safe from Hershel, but, but it's not Hershel anymore –

Yes it is. _He _is. Those are Hershel's eyes. Wide and blank, but blue and clear, too. Not the eyes of a walker. And now his eyelids are closing and he makes a snore-like sound and is out again. Out but breathing.

It takes a few seconds for me to convince myself I don't have to keep aiming an arrow at Hershel's head. But finally I lower my bow, and Carl lowers his gun, and I walk quietly back to my cell and get back to being alone.

Dale walks into my cell a little later. He sits at the foot of my bed and tells me I shouldn't have gone to the infirmary. Just like I shouldn't have gone to the swamps with Carl. I nod and tell him he's right, but he pulls down the collar of his shirt to show me the gory remains of his chest anyway. Then I'm back in the infirmary with Carl and my leg is missing. He's rushing around getting bandages and wrapping them on my stump, and over in the corner a walker without a shirt reaches out for us, but it can't get any closer, because its feet are stuck in mud. The walker snarls and Carl tells it to shut up, and I tell him not to talk to the walker like that. And finally I'm back in my cell, lying on my bed, and Carl's shaking my shoulder.

"Syd. Sydney!"

I shoot upright, remembering that there's another bed above me just in time to avoid a concussion. "What?" I grasp for my bow, find it, but Carl shakes his head at that. I loosen my grip when I realize he's smiling.

"Hershel's awake. It looks like he's gonna be okay."

The past few hours come crashing back to me, foggy memories and fuzzy emotions becoming sharp, intense. Anger at Carl rises up and is quickly drowned out by the feeling of hope taking over my chest. "He's up now?"

"Yeah. And our dads and T-Dog are back. They –"

I'm gone by then.

My dad is outside the Hershel cell. I stop beside him and look in. T-Dog and Glenn stand in the corners of the cell, T-Dog still in prison armor, but in one piece. At the bedside, Maggie and Beth, their four hands clinging to one of Hershel's. Hershel. Eyes open, not talking, but something like a smile on his face as he looks up at his daughters.

Alive.


	6. Just a Small Thing

Dad slings his crossbow from his back and leans it against the corner of his cell. "What's this I hear about you sneakin' off to the infirmary?"

I crack my fingers, staring at his back from my place on the bottom bunk. His cell – well, the cell he keeps his stuff in – is up on the balcony, at the very end of the row, and any other time I might like the privacy of it, but right now I wouldn't mind the others being up here with us. Saving me from this conversation.

But they're not.

So, mildly, I answer, "Wasn't just me. Carl went, too." But then I realize that sounds like I'm trying to drag Carl down with me, so I add, "I mean, I didn't go alone."

"Don't matter." Dad turns to me, and he has on his stern face, the one that makes my head lower. "You and Carl ain't got no business goin' anywhere in this place with just the two of you."

He's not yelling, so that's good. But he's pretty damn far from happy. I pretend to adjust my release trigger, trying to think of a solid defense. The only thing that comes to mind is the plain and simple truth.

"It was for Hershel, Dad."

And Dad, he sighs. "Yeah, I know . . ." He sounds tired, and when I peek up I find him looking at the wall, his fingers working at his sides, and I wait, trying not to fidget, until finally he gives me back his attention. "Nothin' like this again. Hear me?"

My muscles relax. "Yeah."

He nods, says alright, then studies me for a while. I lift my eyebrows.

"You're wonderin' 'bout them prisoners, ain't ya?" he finally says, because he knows me, and now it's my turn to nod. Eagerly.

Dad grimaces but sits beside me, rubbing his mouth. "Ain't much to tell." He takes the quiver from his back, pulls out a bloody arrow, starts wiping it with a rag. "We cleared out a cell block for 'em. They're gonna stay over there. Not make any problems for us."

"How many are there?"

"Two."

"I heard five voices before."

His lips tighten and he gets a second arrow. I swallow. "What happened to the others?"

Dad doesn't answer right away, and I'm about to try and press it, but then, "One got bit. Other two turned on us."

So they killed them. But it was self-defense. There's nothing wrong with that, that's how it had to be, so I nod like it's nothing, flipping my trigger closed and open some more. _Snap, click._ "But you don't think these last two are dangerous?" I ask softly, watching his dirty hands work on the arrow.

"Nah. They'll leave us alone." He sets the both of the clean arrows at his feet and doesn't reach for another one, not right away. After a second, "How ya like the prison?"

I consider this, because I haven't really given it a whole lot of thought, and finally I shrug. "I think it could be okay. Once we get rid of the bodies outside and everything. I like having space to myself . . ." I trail off, and for a second my mind stumbles around to a lot of different places, and finally I blurt out – maybe without thinking it all the way through – "I called Beth a bitch to Carl and now he's mad at me." And then my eyes fall.

Dad makes a low sound, almost like a hiss. But, before long, he just gets a third arrow from his quiver. "You need to get a handle on that mouth of yours. Little girls don't need to be talkin' the way you do."

"I ain't a little girl," I can't help muttering.

"Why'd you say she was a bitch?"

I pick at my knuckle. "After we got back from the infirmary, Lori was chewin' out Carl 'n me, and then Carl . . . He snapped at her, and Beth told him he couldn't talk to her like that. But she ain't got no business tellin' him how he should talk to Lori." I wait for Dad to say something, but he just keeps cleaning the arrow, so on I go. "And Carl ran out, and I followed him, and I just said what I said 'cause I's tryin' to make him feel better, and he got p – he got mad, and now I guess we're fightin'. Or somethin'."

"Don't sound like that big of a deal to me."

I frown at him. "He pretty much yelled at me. All 'cause he . . ."

"'Cause he what?"

_'Cause he likes Beth. _"Nothin'."

Dad finishes cleaning and gathers the other two arrows in his hands, slips them all back into the quiver. "Well, I ain't that good at this kinda stuff, Little Bit," he eventually admits. "But it'll be fine, I promise. Things like that blow over."

_Little Bit. _Been a while since I heard that.

Dad looks at me, then points at my shirt and flicks my nose when I glance down, like Merle used to do when I was little. It's just a small thing, but it makes me smile.

Maybe I like the prison.


	7. Safe

I'm still awake long after the sun has set and the others have turned in. Sleep and me, we used to get along better than this. But lately I'm completely at its mercy. I sit up on the bed, swing my legs over the edge, and listen to the faint noise of T-Dog snoring. The sound's somehow comforting, but not comforting enough, not tonight.

I think for a few minutes. Then I make the same hissing sound my dad made earlier today and I stand. I move out of the cell, see Rick slumped against the wall across the room. The shadows falls on his face in such a way that I can't tell if he's awake or not, but if he is, he doesn't see me or just doesn't say anything.

Unsurprisingly, Carl is in bed when I get to his cell. I shake his shoulder. "Hey."

He flinches before his eyes open, fluttering, confused, and then he's pushing himself up, starting to talk, but I don't let him.

"I'm not sorry I called her a bitch," I say flatly. "I was trying to make you feel better." _And you hurt my feelings when you jumped on me like that, you jerk. _

He blinks up at me, long and slow blinks. His hair is messy and I shuffle my feet. "So, yeah," I finish. "That's it."

One more blink, and then Carl says, "You woke me up just to tell me that?"

" . . . I couldn't sleep."

We don't break our solemn eye contact for a good two, three seconds, and then one of us starts laughing and the other starts laughing and I'm biting my bottom lip, trying to be quiet about it. After we've calmed down a bit, and our breathing's back to normal and blending into one another's like it does, he says, "We were right to go to the infirmary."

I nod. I could never say that to my dad or anyone else, but yes, I can admit it to Carl. We might've saved Hershel's life.

"My mom shouldn't have . . . "

"Yeah."

The laughter's long gone from him now. Silence, then, "Sometimes . . . Sometimes I wish she wasn't here."

I take a long breath. "No, you don't."

"Yeah, I do."

"No," I say steadily, and I look hard into his eyes. "You don't."

Because you'll miss her playing the piano and the way her pajamas smell like coffee and even the whiskey on her breath as she sings you to sleep.

And Carl understands, at least where I'm coming from, and he doesn't fight anymore.

"Hey, Syd?"

That came from behind me. Rick's here now. He doesn't look angry, just very tired. I wonder how much of the conversation he's heard . . . "It's late," he says. "You'd better get some rest."

And so I leave the cell. As I pass Rick by, he doesn't pat my shoulder or anything, the way he probably would on any other night. And so I think he probably heard more of that conversation than either Carl or me would have liked him to. But I get back to my cell and into bed, and I hear Rick's slow footsteps moving past outside. So he and Carl won't talk about it, then. What else is new, I guess.

But at least my partner and I are back on good terms.

In the morning, breakfast. Breakfast like we haven't had in forever. Water is boiling by the time I wake up, later than usual, and soon oatmeal's prepared, and I have a generous helping, pouring canned peaches on the top. We have eggs and milk, too, and they're the powdered kind, but I couldn't care less . . . No coffee maker, but somehow coffee is made, Carol filling up this little sack with the grounds and dipping it into the boiling water, and we all scatter around the cell block, the Greenes and Glenn in Hershel's cell, the other adults in the room with the tables – the dining room? – and me and Carl gorging ourselves on the staircase, laughing over nothing. _Gorging. _It's probably not healthy, but it's a _real_ meal, not just a bite of meat or beans. It tastes like the old world.

The day is given to cleaning Block C. Miserable. But it smells a hell of a lot better after. Carl and I aren't allowed along when Dad and T-Dog and Glenn go to the infirmary, following the signs we made yesterday. They return with a pair of crutches we overlooked. Hershel's already stronger today, the color returning to his face, his dry chuckle echoing out from his cell now and then. He's going to be fine, Hershel.

At the end of the day, Block C looks like a place we can live in. And it's safe. It's safe, it looks safe, it feels safe, it's safe. And I sleep easier that night than I have in a while.

The next morning, another breakfast, but the rationing's starting to kick in and I can't stuff myself this time. Which is actually okay, since I had a stomachache in the hours following yesterday morning's feast. But there's coffee again and I sneak some when my dad's not looking. Still don't like the taste, but I drink it anyway, sipping it in my cell and letting the scent fill the place up. It reminds me of something, and I put the glass down long enough to dip into one of my backpack's side pockets. I unfold the picture of Mom and Dad and me on a quilt outside from a hundred years ago, and I tuck its edge into a crevice on the side of my bed, where I can see it at night but it's still kind of private.

It's a big step, putting the picture out. _Nesting. _

But we'll see.

The adults, all but Lori and Hershel, head outside after breakfast, because they're going to clear the courtyard and field. Burn the bodies, bring in the vehicles. Carl and I apparently won't be much use with driving and hauling around corpses, and Beth wants to stay with her father, so it's just the five of us left in here. With the place all cleaned up, Carl and I don't have much to do, so we sit on the stairs and he cleans his gun and I wax my bowstring so Lori won't make us do work in the textbooks that somehow surfaced back up last night after being absent for weeks. But when Lori and Beth appear from the dining room, and Lori has the crutches in her arms, I realize that she's not concerned with us today. As the two of them walk into Hershel's cell, Beth gives us a smile. Me and Carl both. In spite of myself, I return it. Beth, she's hard to be mad at. Mostly because even when she's bitchy she's really not that bitchy.

In the cell, Hershel pulls himself up from the bed, even though Lori tells him to take his time, and Beth says not to push himself. Hershel's face is set, though. "What else am I gonna do?" He takes the crutches under his arms, wobbling but staying upright. "Can't stand looking up at the bottom of that bunk any longer."

Carl and I back out of the doorway as Hershel _clacks_ his way forward, so different from the man I thought I might have to shoot just two days ago. "I feel pretty steady . . ."

A rare smile is on Lori's face as she watches Hershel's feet – foot. She and Beth are hovering around him, though, hands inches from his arms. "That's a good start," Lori says. "Take a rest?"

"Rest?" Hershel looks at her like she's crazy. "Let's go for a little stroll."

Lori and Beth exchange glances but don't stop the old man as he goes forward, slow and steady. Across this room, into the dining room. He reaches the stairs, Lori and Beth still glued to him, me and Carl trailing along. Those stairs, they present a bit of a problem at first, but Hershel gets the hang of it fast. It's just like walking, really, but with three legs instead of two. Up the steps, through the door, and outside, into the cage-like hall of a thing. The station wagon is crunching its way across the courtyard as we step out into the warm air, but I don't pay it much mind, I'm watching Hershel make his way down the stairs out here. Lori stays in front of him, pressing a hand to his chest, and Hershel loses his balance once but catches himself. He's doing great, he really is.

Then the stairs are done, and it's out of the cage and into the courtyard. It's pretty nice, this courtyard, especially now that it's cleaned up. There are bleachers to my left, a basketball goal to my right. Might be a ball in the prison somewhere . . .

Hershel's got the hang of the crutches. He moves forward, almost as fast as he used to walk, gazing around. "Startin' to look like a place we could really live in."

"Hey, you watch your step," says Lori, even as she watches it for him. "Last thing we need is you fallin'."

Over on one end of the yard, Carol climbs out of the station wagon, says something to T-Dog. Maggie's with them. Directly in front of me, my dad and Rick and Glenn are on the other side of the fence, at the hole we cut open to break our way into this place. Rick and Glenn have their arms full of firewood for the bodies, but they all pause, and I think they're looking this way. I know they are, actually, because Glenn soon yells, "All right, Hershel!"

"You're doin' great, Daddy," Beth says. She and Lori have backed off a little now, and Beth's beaming.

From my right, Carl asks, "Ready to race, Hershel?"

"Gimme another day," he answers. "I'll take you on."

And you know what? What the hell. It's a nice day, just enough clouds out to keep the sun from being scorching, Hershel's alive and well, and there are no corpses in the yard anymore. So I walk backwards for a minute and catch Carl's eyes. "I'll race ya," I dare, smirking a bit.

"Two laps around?"

My bow and quiver are already settled on the asphalt. _"Go!"_

And we sprint, not even sure where we're going, because who knows what a lap is around here? But we bolt away from the others and around the bleachers, and I edge ahead, because Carl's the strong one and I'm the fast one, I'm faster, and my boots are light and easy to spring off of, and the concrete helps me along and we race, we race, and I'm grinning, and we go underneath an overhang and into this open area, the same area my dad and the others disappeared into the other day while I was standing outside of the fence, nervous, but it's safe here now, we've made it safe, and I turn the corner, and I collide head-on with a walker.

**. . . . .**

**A.N.: One of my reviewers says s/he is unimpressed with Syd S3 so far. Agreement, disagreement, suggestions? Feedback of all type is very much appreciated. Thanks for reading, guys.**


	8. How It's Supposed to Be

**A.N.: Thank you all very much for the reviews and the support. Enjoy the chapter.**

**. . . . .**

Carl shouts my name. I'm on the ground. The walker is above me, reaching, and I scramble away with my palms tearing against the concrete, but oh God, my bow's gone, my bow's back there –

The walker's head blows up and I'm safe. For the moment. And that's it, that's all I get, because walkers fill up every last inch of the area before me, and they're coming, and it doesn't make sense, but I stumble to my feet, Carl yanking at me, and as we start to run again I have enough sense to scream _"Walkers!" _at the top of my lungs. The next thing I know, Carl and I are back in the main part of the courtyard, and the others are turning towards us, confused, shocked, horrified. My bow, my bow – there, there, on the ground, I grab it and throw my quiver on my back, and there's a gunshot and Rick yelling from all too far away, and I nock an arrow and it goes into the nearest walker's brain, and another gunshot and another and Carl jumps up onto the bleachers and shoots and I just keep pulling arrows out and aiming, and there's yelling, and there are so many of them, so many walkers, and it makes no sense, none at all, and oh my God, Hershel, where – he's moving across the yard, Beth's with him. Lori and Carl are to my left, guns up, and I hear Carol's voice and gunshots from farther away, too, and my dad must be coming, right? He'll be here any second, and so will Rick –

There are a hundred walkers.

_"Get out of there! No! Lori!"_

That was Rick and he's still too far away. Somebody's saying something about a gate being open, T-Dog's saying something about a gate being open. _Bam bam bam. _My hand goes to my quiver and grasps air. No, no, I've only shot – seven arrows. Damn it, damn it, goddamn it to hell, I shoulder my bow and pull out my gun and miss the first walker I aim in on, and then I miss it again and someone else shoots it.

"Lori! Here!"

That was Maggie, and now Lori's grabbing my shirt and tugging me towards the entrance, where we were just a minute ago, it's clear enough to run for it now and Carl's on Lori's other side and Maggie's waiting by the open door to the cage-hallway. We rush through and Lori shuts us in. I take one last look around the yard as walkers reach their fingers through the caging, and I see T-Dog and Carol still out there, all the way on the other side of the yard, and I see Beth and Hershel locked away in a fenced-off place that I don't know what it's for but it looks secure, and I don't see my dad, I don't see him, but now Lori's herding us into the prison and then the heavy door is slamming behind us and it's quiet and dark and cool.

Maggie bounds down the dining room steps and strides over to the entrance to the cell block, Carl right behind her, me right behind him, Lori last, none of us talking, not yet. Maggie's five feet from the door when a walker stumbles out at her.

They're in here, too, they're in our cell block. And as Maggie whirls and pushes Carl and then me to the other side of the room, I remember the picture I have in my cell.

There's a second door here, one leading deeper into the prison, and Carl opens it and goes through, then me and Lori and Maggie, and the door shuts behind us, and are we safer? Really? Because we have no idea what's down here, except more walkers, of course there will be more walkers, of course there will. But we push forward anyway, forward into the dark. We don't have flashlights, only the gray beams pouring through tiny windows high on the walls, and that's not much, not at all. My bow is useful now only as a club, and I'm glad Carl's in the lead, because my revolver and I clearly do not match up well anymore. Still, I have it out as we work our way through the corridors with no destination, checking down hallways, wincing when something cracks beneath our feet. I only have four bullets left, though. Carl's gun holds more, but he must be close to out, too. Does he have extra ammo on him? Damn it, why don't I –

Alarms start to sound, deep, droning alarms from high above us, and for a second I'm locked back in a huge computer room with a mad scientist, a movie-sized screen telling me I have a half-hour to live. But I'm back to now in just a second, and Carl's still moving, so I'm still moving, too. But I ask about the alarms over my shoulder, and Maggie answers, her voice is lower than usual. Afraid. "I don't know what they are, Sydney. Just keep goin'."

And I do. Red lights are now flashing above us, but I keep going, I keep moving, and we need to find something, a room, _something_ –

There's a throaty sound from behind me, a sound like a wounded animal, and I halt and turn and Lori's got her head bowed against a wall. Shit. Maggie rushes to her, begs her to keep up, but Lori doesn't move. She says something's not right.

"Are you bit?" Carl's voice is too high here.

"No. No . . ." Lori rotates, presses her back against the wall, Maggie gripping her arms. "I think the baby's coming."

"Mom – ?"

Then there's growling, and shapes appear at the end of the corridor. A lot of them. Up come our guns, mine and Carl's both, but Maggie shouts that there's no time, turn back. We listen, Carl going first, then Maggie and Lori, and I'm last. I glance over my shoulder every other step as we run, and the walkers, they're catching up. They're not fast, really, but they're fast enough right now, when we have a _woman in labor_ on our hands, and I bump into Maggie as Carl leads us around a sharp turn. Lori's gasping. Hurry, hurry . . . Up ahead, Carl's voice: "In here!" Maggie and Lori disappear through a doorway he's found, and I do the same, and Carl slams the door behind us. Sort of. He pulls it shut time and time again, but it won't close, not all the way, something's jammed or blocking it or _something_.

"Just leave it," I pant, brushing the hair off of my sticky neck, wishing for a ponytail holder. "The walkers won't notice."

I actually don't know that, but it would be great if it were true.

Three steps down, a turn, three more steps down, into a little brick-walled room filled with pipes and things that look like boilers or something, but I don't know, and I don't care, Lori's about to have a baby and it's the worst time she could have possibly chosen to do so. Lori, she's clinging to a chain hanging from the wall. Her eyes drift up. "What're those alarms?"

"Don't worry about it," says Maggie hurriedly.

"What if it attracts them?" says Carl. Nobody answers that.

This room has a desk over on one side, and a table on another, and it's dark, very dark, the windows don't let a lot of light in here either. "Lori, let's lay you down," says Maggie.

"No. Baby's comin' now."

"W-we have to get back to our cell block," says Carl, "And have Hershel help –"

"We can't risk getting caught out there," I whisper before I can stop myself. It's true, isn't it? We barely made it in here, there's no way we can get back, not all of us, not with Lori like this, and Maggie, she's nodding, her eyes on Lori, who's clenching the table.

"She's right," Maggie says, and Maggie's nervous, she can't hide it, but I'm glad she's with us, so glad. "You're gonna need to give birth to this baby here." I stare at Lori's belly, her swollen belly that seems like such a part of her now. There is actually a real baby in there, and it is coming out, now, here, in the middle of a dark and dirty room of pipes.

Lori's breaths, they're ragged and short. "What's she doing?" asks Carl. "Can't she breathe?"

"She's fine." Maggie's voice still has that anxious edge, but her words are clipped and businesslike, and her arms wrap around Lori's waist as she says "C'mere, let's get your pants off . . ." and unbuttons the jeans. Lori lies down on the floor. As Maggie peels off the pants, she looks at me. "Sydney, you're gonna need to help me deliver the baby. You up for it?"

Nope.

"Yeah."

Maggie tosses the jeans to the side. Maybe it should be awkward, but truth is Lori being half-naked is the easiest part of the whole situation for me to deal with, Carl here or not. Maggie puts her hands on Lori's knees. "I'm gonna examine you, see if you're dilated."

"D'you know how?" Carl asks. His voice is still too high, all wrong. The word _hysterical _pops into my mind.

"Dad told me, but trust me, it's my first time."

Carl turns, maybe because Maggie's spreading Lori's legs – if so, Carl's going to have to get over that pretty damn soon – or maybe just to check the door, but I watch Lori, who's bending her head back, and I watch Maggie, whose face shows the quickest flash of fear as she admits, "I can't tell."

"I gotta push . . ."

"Okay . . ."

"I gotta push."

"Okay."

Lori gets to her feet, somehow, Maggie kind of helping, and Lori's hands grasp some pipes. She makes a grunting noise, her face twisting, then . . . "_Somebody!"_

Maggie grabs one of her hands off of the pipes, holds it. But Lori takes it back. "I'm okay, I'm okay . . ." she huffs, but no she isn't, that's not what _okay_ sounds like . . .

"You're doin' great, Lori." Maggie's rubbing her back. "Just keep doin' it, your body knows what to do, let it do all the work . . ."

Lori cries out again. Maggie repeats that she's doing great. Carl and I stand off to the side, doing nothing, not knowing what to do, because what are we good at but putting walkers down? And I hate everything, _everything_ about this. Maggie goes into a squat, watching in between Lori's legs, and I want this baby to come out, _now_, I want this all be over . . .

"Lori, stop, don't push, somethin's wrong!"

And then Lori's letting out the worst scream I've ever heard from a human being and all I can see is Maggie's hand in a single stream of light, covered in blood.

Carl's hand clamps onto my arm so tightly that some part of me is aware of pain, but that part has no place here and now, so I let Carl clasp away as Maggie gets Lori back to the ground, flat on her back. Lori's hair is soaked, her eyes are half-shut. Carl lets me go, gets on his knees beside Lori's head. "Mom. Mom, look at me, look at me, keep your eyes open."

Her hand's in his. It's the most they've touched in months.

Maggie's on the floor, too. "We have to get you back to Dad."

"I'm not gonna make it . . ."

Is that we she said? No, no, it can't be. She's talking so softly, I just heard wrong.

"Lori, with all this blood, I don't even think you're fully dilated yet – no amount of pushin' is gonna help –"

"I know what it means. And I'm not losin' my baby. You've gotta cut me open."

A beat passes. Then Maggie shakes her head. "No. I can't."

"You don't have a choice."

"No, no . . . " I'm the only one still standing, and I take a step back now. _That_ can't happen, no way. "I'm going for Hershel."

"No!"

I stop, grit my teeth, look at Lori. She's exhausted. More than I've ever seen her, and that's saying something. But there's still a force in her eyes that holds me here, even with all my instincts screaming for me to run, find Hershel, save the day. My feet don't move, they just can't move.

Maggie strokes Lori's hands, and she's on the verge of tears, I can tell by her voice. "Look, Carol's the one that practiced that. Dad only taught me the steps. Lori, if I –"

_"Please."_

"I have no anesthetic, no equipment –"

"Carl has a knife."

". . . You won't survive."

Then it's out of the question! Can't she see –

"My baby has to survive. Please. My baby . . . For all of us – _please_, Maggie! Please!"

Carl still has her hand.

_"Please."_

And then Maggie's pushing Lori's shirt up, revealing her stomach.

I come down to my knees, mostly because my legs can't be bothered to hold me up anymore. I pull my bow and quiver from my shoulder.

"See my old C-section scar?"

"I can't," chokes out Maggie, even as she stares at the dark strip of skin.

"You can. You have to." Then her head turns. It seems like a very tiresome thing for her, turning her head. Her pretty head. Lori's so beautiful, even now, on the floor, about to – "Carl? Baby, I don't want you to be scared, okay? This is what I want. This is right."

I crawl over to her, to Lori. To Carl. I don't touch him, or her, but I'm close, and I can hear, and I listen.

"Now you – you take care of your daddy for me, alright? And your little brother or sister, you take care of them –"

"You don't have to do this . . ."

He's crying. I bow my head.

"You are gonna be _fine_." Her voice gets harder, fiercer. "You are gonna _beat _this world, I know you will. You are smart, and you are strong, and you are _so _brave. And I love you."

I press my forearm to my mouth. Maggie's arm wraps around me and her head nestles into my neck, and she says _shh_, but it doesn't mean much, because she's starting to cry right along with me.

"I love you, too . . ."

"You gotta do what's right, baby. You promise me you'll always do what's right. It's so easy to do the wrong thing in this world . . . So . . . so if it feels wrong, don't do it. Alright? If it feels easy, don't do it, don't let the world spoil you!"

Carl. Carl. He's crying, I want to reach out to him, I want to – but this is their moment. I've been in this same moment before and it was ruined by someone who was just trying to take care of me, and I'm not going to make that mistake, I know better, so I let them be, as hot tears stream down my face and onto my arm, I let them be.

"You're so good . . . My sweet boy . . . The best thing I ever did . . . _I love you –"_

He falls into her arms, sobbing. They're both sobbing.

"I love you, my sweet, sweet boy, I love you . . ."

Maggie. I cling to Maggie.

"Okay . . . okay . . ." Lori's saying, and it's over. The goodbye. It's over. Carl's sitting back up. His hat's gone, his hat's fallen off. The first time I ever saw Carl with tears on his face was when Rick showed up at the survivors' camp long after his wife and his son believed him to be dead. How things have changed. How they've changed.

"Maggie." Lori stiffens out on the floor. Preparing. "When this is over you're gonna have to –"

"Shh, shh, _shh –"_

"You have to do it, it can't be Rick!"

Maggie takes a breath. A long, deep breath. And Lori, Lori says alright. Alright, alright. She touches Carl and says it's alright. And it's not alright. That's a lie. It's not alright.

Silver flashes below me as Carl's knife passes from his hand to Maggie's. His hand, it falls on my lap for a moment, like he can't bear to hold it up anymore, then it makes its way to his mother.

Carl. Carl.

Lori looks up at the ceiling, straight up at the ceiling, and she goes someplace far away. "Goodnight, love."

Maggie's hands touch her stomach. "I'm _sorry_."

The sound of slicing. And Lori screaming again.

Carl yells to stop it. Stop it, Maggie's killing her. He moves for the knife, I block him, shoving into him as hard as I can, and he weighs a lot more than I do, but somehow I push him away, and I'm not sure if what I do after that is a hug or a pin, but I just know that Carl stops shouting, just wails into my shoulder. When Lori's scream is cut short, Carl looks up, I look up. Lori twitches. Then she stops that, too.

And from where Maggie is, from what she's doing, there are sounds. The kind you hear when you gut an animal. Then, "Sydney, give me your hand."

No. No. I'm taking care of Carl, back the hell off.

"Sydney, _please_."

Goddamn it, I didn't sign up for this! I never agreed to this!

But my arm slides from Carl and I rip off my release trigger and I give that hand to Maggie and she tells me things and I do them. Can't cut too deep, or she'll cut the baby. Carl sniffling to my left. The clatter of the knife, the squish-squish of organs. Maggie says she sees the uterus. My hand is inside Lori's belly. Soaking wet. Red. Lots of red. Maggie says she's gonna pull the baby out. She can't tell if this is the arm or the leg. Lori doesn't move. Lori's dead. Maggie says again that she's gonna pull the baby out. Then there's a baby coming out of Lori. There's a baby girl coming out of Lori. Maggie's holding a baby girl now. A long rope of a thing connects her to Lori, Lori, pretty Lori. The baby is still and quiet. Maggie taps its chest, its back. The baby cries. The baby is alive. Lori is dead but the baby is alive. This is what she wanted. This is what she wanted. My hand slips from Lori, from her blood. Her cooling blood.

Carl takes off his overshirt. Maggie cuts the rope and the baby's free. Maggie wraps Carl's shirt around the baby. Lori's baby. Carl's sister. Maggie's standing. Where are the alarms? The alarms have stopped.

"We have to go."

I rise.

"We-we can't just leave her here." Carl's next to me, standing up, too. Face swollen, but hat back on. Looking like Carl again. "She'll turn."

I close my eyes, for just one moment, before I reach behind me and pull out my revolver.

"Don't, Sydney."

Carl's watching me. A new tear slides from his eye.

And I understand what he wants. "No."

"She's my mom."

"Carl. No. No." I step up to him, close. This voice I hear does not belong to me. "No. Carl –"

"I have to."

"No!" And that's all I can think to say. Desperately, I look at him desperately, waiting for something to click inside of his mind, for him to realize that he needs to let me do this. Because this is how it's supposed to be. Dale dies, I get a gun to Carl, makes sure he can protect himself, try to convince him it's not his fault. Carl gets sick in the woods, I head out in the snow to get him help, maybe save his life. I protect Carl. I keep him from things like this. That's how it is, that's how it's supposed to be.

But I'm watching Carl's eyes now, and nothing's clicking for him. "No . . ." I whisper out, one last time, but it's useless and I know it, I know him, it's useless.

"She's my mom," he says again.

I look at him, shaking my head, tears slipping down both of our faces. But Carl doesn't budge, not in any sense of the word. Not until my head bobs up and down, just once. Then he turns. I turn at the same time, but in the opposite direction. I scoop up my bow, my empty quiver. I don't look at Maggie. We go up the first three stairs and turn. The next three stairs, to the door that doesn't close. And we wait.

_Bang._

. . . . .

The air out here is too clear. Too fresh. It's hard to breathe and I'm dizzy. The sun is too bright, even behind the clouds. There aren't enough clouds. Clouds should fill every last inch of the sky, thick, heavy ones that pour down lots of rain. The cage-hallway is too small. I'm glad when we're down the steps, the three of us – the four of us. I'm glad when Maggie pushes the door open and we're out in the yard. Who's out here? Lots of people. I find my dad's face and Rick's face and then I stop looking for faces. Lots of walker bodies, lots of walker bodies.

Maggie goes forward first. Maggie and the baby. Then Carl. Then me. Carl's moving slowly. Maggie's moving slowly. Me too, me too. There's blood all over my hands. All over. Maggie's still crying a little but Carl and I aren't. The baby whimpers some.

Rick's moving towards us as we move towards him. Rick has an axe in his hand, but then he lets it fall. Rick's shirt is splattered with blood. Rick shakes his head at Maggie. Rick steps around for a while. We've stopped, me and Maggie and Carl. Carl is in the middle. Rick doesn't look at him. Rick looks at Maggie. At the baby. Rick asks where is she, where is she? And Maggie lets out one high-pitched sob. Rick moves past Maggie then, and Maggie takes hold of his arm. "No, Rick, no –" Maggie doesn't sound like herself. She loses Rick's arm, though, because she's holding the baby and can't let her go, of course. Rick stops behind her anyway, facing the cage-hallway. Rick starts to cry. I've never seen that before. Rick's fists go to his eyes, then they drop. Rick looks over at Carl. I'm looking over at Carl, too. Carl is looking at the ground. Rick bends forward. "Oh, no . . . _no . . ._" Rick's sobbing, sobbing. Rick's face is crumpled. Carl looks at the ground some more. I take Carl's hand, which is not something he and I do with each other, but it's what should happen. Rick cries _no _again, walking this way and that, and I press my cheek against the back of Carl's shoulder, watching as Rick falls to the ground and looks at the sky. My free arm wraps around Carl's. Carl presses his head against my head, breathing steadily but gripping my hand with fingers that feel like iron.

Rick cries _no _some more and his daughter cries with him.


	9. Lucky

Carl and I end up by Maggie and Glenn. Glenn's alive. Maggie still has the baby. Carl's hand and mine untwine and I grip my bow to make up the difference, but it's not the same. Carl takes the baby into his arms. The baby. His sister. I didn't know he knew how to hold a baby. I don't.

"Let me see the baby." Hershel. Hershel's alive. He's standing by Beth. Beth's alive. Carl moves over to them. I go with Carl. Dad's here, Dad's next to us, carrying his crossbow. "What we gonna feed it?" he's saying. He's talking like himself, maybe a little more heatedly, but mostly like himself. Level-headed, my dad. That's good. That's good. "We got anything a baby can eat?"

Hershel touches the baby, gently, eyes scoping her over. "Good news is, she looks healthy. But she needs formula, and soon, or she won't survive."

"No. No way. Not her." Dad's crossbow goes over his back. "We ain't losin' nobody else, I'm goin' for a run."

Carl's still holding the baby. He's good at it.

"I'll back you up." Maggie.

"I'll go, too." Glenn.

"Okay. Thinka where we're goin'. Beth." Dad draws Beth to the side, tells her something. The baby's crying some more. I guess she'll do that a lot. Carl's bouncing her up and down. Now someone's touching my arm, pulling me around, pulling me to the side, a few feet away from the others. Dad. He crouches down to me. "Baby girl. Hey, look at me, look at me. You okay, you hurt?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Babe, I gotta go. I gotta make a run."

"I know, go ahead. Go ahead."

And he does, because he has to. He yells for someone to get the fence because too many walkers can't pile up, and I don't get what that means, and I walk back over to Carl, to the baby and Hershel and Beth, as Dad yells for Glenn and Maggie and Maggie yells for Rick, because Rick's picked his axe back up and is running into the cage-hallway. Into the prison. I don't have to guess at where he's going. I hear my dad yell again, saying we're gonna lose the light, and Maggie and Glenn follow him away, off to the vehicles, and the baby's still crying. Two men are a little ways off. I don't know them. They're in prison outfits. "They're supposed to keep to their own cell block," I murmur to Hershel, just as the two strangers move off, move down towards the gate, because someone'll have to open it for Dad and the others.

"I'm told they've helped us out today," Hershel says. "A lot."

I watch the men run off. Then I look to my left. My right. No one else is in here with us. "Where's Carol?"

Beth's eyes go glassy. Hershel sighs down at me. I nod slowly. "T-Dog?"

Hershel shakes his head.

I don't even hurt. I'm past that now.

We go inside, and Hershel and Beth don't know much. What they do know, I don't hear. It doesn't matter. Carl matters. He's still holding the baby. I sit by them, on top of a table. Glenn comes into the room. Just Dad and Maggie went on the run, on his motorcycle, because a car couldn't get through to where they were going. Glenn knows the whole story of what happened, and I try to listen. One of the prisoners they thought they killed hadn't actually died, and I miss how they made that mistake. I miss his name, but I hear how he opened the gate, lured in the walkers. Turned the alarms on so more came. I miss how he died but it doesn't matter, because at least he's dead. He deserved to die. He deserves to burn in hell, burn in hell, burn in hell. Glenn leaves. Rick doesn't show up. Beth makes food that Carl and me don't touch and Hershel goes outside to do something. Something. Rick still doesn't show up. He's lost somewhere in darkness.

Hershel comes back. Then Glenn comes back. Then the two prisoners appear. One is short and white and has a blonde beard. The other is tall and black and muscled. They say they have graves ready. Glenn says maybe we should wait, Hershel says no. Hershel says there's not much to bury anyway. So I'm left alone for a while, because I don't do funerals. I leave the dining room and go into the cell block. There are walker bodies in here. I go to my cell. I check on my picture. I don't look at it, I just make sure it's there, whole. Then I return to the dining room.

The others come back. Swollen faces. But the bodies of our people, or what's left, are in the ground. Lori's still in the darkness with Rick, but they put a cross up for her anyway.

We move the walker bodies into a pile outside. Between Glenn and Beth and Carl and me, we manage, though it's slow work. That's okay. It's work. It kills time. It's almost dark when we finish. Glenn goes outside to watch for Dad and Maggie. It keeps getting dark, with just the moonlight through the windows washing out everyone's weary faces as we sit in the dining room and don't talk much. The day's slipping by, which is hard to believe. A day like this should last longer. But no. Night's here, night never stands you up. And the door opens and my dad and Maggie are back. Carl's holding the baby. He holds her as much as he can. I haven't, I don't want to. Beth and Maggie go to the counter, and I hear the crinkling of a plastic bag. My dad comes over here, to the table we're still on, tossing his poncho in my lap. "How's she doin'?"

She screeches. Dad takes her from Carl, carefully, telling her _shh. _She's still in Carl's shirt. Dad stands up straight, swaying back and forth, and Carl stands up too, eyes on the baby. I stay seated. My legs are tired. The prisoners come in. Glenn. Beth comes over with a bottle. They got the food, then. The formula. Dad takes the bottle, starts feeding the baby. He rocks her, Carl watches her. The dear sweet baby.

"She got a name yet?" Dad asks Carl.

"Mm, not yet . . . I was thinkin' . . . maybe Sophia?"

I press my elbows into my knees and push my clasped hands against my lips. They're chapped, my lips.

"But then there's . . . Carol, too," Carl says. He sighs. And he can't stop now, can he? "Andrea . . . Amy . . . Jacqui . . . Patricia . . ." And now his eyes float down to mine. "Leah."

I haven't heard that name in a very long time. I don't know how Carl knows it. But it's just him and me in the room for a second, and I say "Lori" and the list is complete.

It's silent and cold. Then Dad says we should call the baby Little Asskicker and everyone laughs. I smile some, I think. Don't I? Then Dad calls the baby _sweetheart_ and I'm aware of not liking that but I feel so fuzzy-headed that I can't concern myself with it too much, not now, it would take too much energy. The two prisoners are still here. No one tells them to go. Glenn kisses Maggie and Rick doesn't show up. Lori and Carol and T-Dog are dead. Carl sits next to me again at some point. He eats something. I eat nothing. Dad asks if I've eaten anything and I say no. He looks at me for a while. But he doesn't make me try. The baby cries and then stops. They've found a crate for her. They've put a towel in it, all folded up and soft. Rock-a-bye baby.

Carl peers into the crate for a while and then goes into his cell and I go, too. He puts his hat on the top bunk. He sits down on the bottom bunk, and I see it hit him all over again. I see it. "Syd . . ."

And so I sit beside him and rest my forehead on his shoulder and he puts an arm around me and, for a long time, sort-of cries. No sobs. Just gasps and an occasional whimper. His tears fall on my hands.

When he stops trembling, and my hands are dry, I say, "You should try and sleep."

"Won't be able to."

"I'll stay with you, okay?" I want him to sleep. If he can sleep, maybe he'll have good dreams. Maybe he'll forget who he is and what he's lost, maybe he'll be someone whole and happy somewhere inside of his mind, for a little while.

And so he lies down and stares ahead. The moon hits one of his eyes, making it glow, causing the tear streaks to glimmer and shine on his skin. I brush his hair from his forehead and eventually his eyes shut. I hum something, softly, maybe too softly for even him to hear. "Piano Man," that's what I'm humming. I keep my hand on Carl's arm until he's breathing so deeply and his face is so peaceful that I know he's gone from the world, because the world doesn't offer peace like that. He's become that whole and happy someone somewhere in his mind. For a little while.

I whisper, "Don't let the world spoil you." And I leave.

I spend a minute or two leaning on the wall outside of Carl's door. No one's out here, everyone's asleep by now. It's late, late, maybe it's tomorrow. Long day. Today, or yesterday, it was a long day.

I bend over for a second, trying to remember how to get air into my lungs.

My arrows. My arrows are still all outside. I have to get my arrows. Off the wall. Into the dining room. There, on the table, my bow, my release, my quiver. I take all of them into my arms and put them where they should be and complete the puzzle that is my body as it's up the steps, to the door. I open it as softly as I can, close it as softly as I can. Did someone hear? Who knows? Who cares? Into the cage-hallway, the deep blue night. Alone, I'm alone, and the air out here was bad earlier today but it's good now, it's cool but not cold and it feels nice on my face, but I still have to work to get it down me. My lungs won't relax until I get my arrows all together. Things will be alright when I get my arrows all together. Down the steps. Out the cage-hallway door. Asphalt beneath my feet, stars above my head, the same stars that have always been there. To the bleachers, where Carl stood. I stood right . . . here. With Lori at my side. Look at all the walker bodies before me. Walkers, walkers, everywhere. Which walkers can I claim? There. That one has an arrow in its head. Over to it I go and I take back what's mine. I keep going. Two arrows, three arrows, four. Deep breaths, fight for air, air is good. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Five arrows, six. The last one, lucky number seven, I can't find it. I can't find it. I look and look and I can't find it, so I sink to the ground and I bury my face in my hands, because if I can't find that arrow, then it's all hopeless. Someone walks up to me. Someone's out here, who knew?

"Sydney, what're you doing?" asks Glenn. Not mad. Tired. Everybody's tired. I don't answer him. I don't move. It's hopeless, everything's hopeless, I can't find my seventh arrow.

"Look," Glenn says gently, "You need to get back inside –"

"Glenn. I got her."

Dad. Behind me. Glenn and I have both managed to miss him. He's sneaky, my dad. I hear Glenn say okay. I hear Glenn walk off. I feel Dad lower down next to me and something slides into my quiver. "You missed one."

Lucky number seven. Lucky, lucky. I lift my head, wait for the hopelessness to go away. But it doesn't.

I open my mouth to tell Dad something. To tell him how I pressed my hand into Lori's insides as she died, maybe. Or to tell him how Carl wouldn't let me put Lori down. How I tried to make him let me, _I tried, _and he just _wouldn't let me. _Or maybe my mouth opens to ask Dad how Carol died, the woman who cried and hugged me after they found me in the woods, who worked so hard to bring my dad and me back into the group when he wanted nothing more than to get us away from it. Maybe my mouth opens to ask about T-Dog or to tell Dad that he's not supposed to call the baby _sweetheart_, that that's supposed to be just for me. But my mouth dries and my throat tightens and not a word comes from me. I can't talk. I can't.

I'm not past hurting anymore.

My hands try to rip out my hair and I curl up, gasping. Dad takes my wrists and holds them together. He keeps them both in one hand and his other arm goes around my shoulders and locks me to him. My arms go limp and he lets go of my wrists and then he's not locking me, just holding me as I cry with no reserve, nothing held back, not at all, not a bit. And my daddy just rocks me like he was rocking the baby earlier, and now it's my turn for him to call me _sweetheart_, and as far away as the world is from being right, that takes us one tiny step closer and I manage to stop crying, eventually. Then we go inside and my dad gives me a can of peaches to eat, since he knows they're my favorite. I eat the whole can, slowly, but I eat it. It doesn't come back up. Then we go into my cell and my dad tucks me in. The baby starts crying. Dad says let someone else take care of her.

"You really gonna call her Little Asskicker?"

"Why not? You were Little Hellraiser till your Nana found out and had a fit over it. We switched to Little Bit after that."

"You can't call this baby Little Bit."

"You silly thing . . . Course not. You're the one and only."

He hums to me, the same song he's always hummed. I don't even know what it's called, but I like it.

I don't know if he stays there all night. But he wakes me up in the morning, when the blue-pink light of dawn is starting to fill the cell block. Just as the day before flows all through me again, Dad says, "Hey. Wanna go huntin'?"

And of course I do.

The sun's peeking over the horizon by the time we get outside, and it casts its happy orange over everything. It takes us one more step closer. Still so far away, though, we're still so far away from the world being right. We leave the courtyard and go into the field. There are three crosses in it now. "Hang on," Dad says to me. "Gotta do somethin'."

I watch him go over to the crosses. He stands in front of one. He pulls something from his vest. I step to the side so I can see better, and Dad kneels to the ground. He places it on top of the fresh dirt. A Cherokee rose.

I swallow. Dad rests his hand on the cross for a second. Then he rises. He turns, he comes back to me. He bats at my head, but I'm quick, even now, and I dodge away. He smiles a little. "Think ya can get a squirrel 'fore me?"

"Hell yeah."

"Watch your mouth. Damn Dixon."


	10. The Run

I can't sit still. As long as I keep moving, the cloud of anxiety in my chest can't keep up with me. It falls behind and I feel a little better. But as soon as I stop, it catches up and takes me over, reminding me that yesterday was real and if I look around, not everyone will be here, and there's nothing I can do about it. So I pace.

We're having breakfast, a late breakfast. Everyone left is in the dining room, except for Rick and Axel – the short, white prisoner. He's in a place called the generator room, fixing things, if he can. Rick's still gone. My dad sits on the steps leading up and outside. The second prisoner, Oscar, stands against some railings close to him, and the others are all around one table, eating oatmeal. Except the baby. She's sleeping in her crate, just inside the cell block. Quiet, for once. And nobody's talking, not the way we can on a good day. There are no sounds but the clacking of plastic spoons against plastic bowls. The sounds of mourning.

There's an open spot next to Carl with a half-full bowl of oatmeal and a drained glass of milk before it. The oatmeal's probably still warm. I don't want anymore. Barely wanted what I had. What do I want? I want to _pace_. So I pace. _Snap, click, _goes my release. _Snap, click, snap, click. _Probably gonna wear the trigger out.

Carl's not eating. He's staring at his bowl but not really seeing it. I grimace as I turn away from him, continuing on my path, not wanting to draw attention to the boy with the dead mom. I'm learning fast that when Carl doesn't have the baby in his arms, his head's right back to yesterday, in the room with the pipes –

"Everybody okay?"

I spin on my heel. Rick, behind the door Lori and Maggie and Carl and I fled through yesterday. He pushes the bars away from, opening the door, as everyone stares at him. Carl twists all the way around to do so.

"Yeah," Maggie answer steadily, "We are."

"What about you?" asks Hershel.

Rick walks in. I lean against the staircase that goes up to that little glass room I still haven't been in. Rick, he seems confused by Hershel's question. Sleeplessness is all over his face, in his voice. "Cleared out the boiler block."

"How many were there?" Dad asks.

"I don't know. A dozen. Two dozen." Rick's arm drifts down to his son. "I have to get back." Pat, pat. "Just wanted to check on Carl."

He says nothing about the baby.

Glenn stands as Rick heads for the door again. "Rick, we can handle taking out the bodies. You don't have to –"

"No, I do." Then something snaps on in Rick, and he turns, and his pace is faster as he passes Glenn by, passes me by, over to my dad. "Everyone have a gun and a knife?"

"Yeah. Runnin' low on ammo, though."

Glenn's still on his feet. "Maggie and me were planning on making a run this afternoon. Found a phone book. Someplace we can look for bullets and formula."

"Cleared out the generator room," Dad adds. "Axel's there tryin' to fix it, in case of emergency. We're gonna sweep the lower levels as well."

Nods from Rick. "Good, good." Across the room. Through the door. Bye, Rick. Don't worry, we'll take care of your kids for you. Hershel calls his name over the squeak and clang of the door as he shuts it behind him. Then he's gone again. Back to the darkness.

Rick and Lori were barely speaking before she died. I don't understand how he thinks he can mourn like this. And there's an ache in my hand, I have a fist grinding into the stairwell. I snort, rub that fist across my eye, start across the dining room again. Hunting this morning was a relief, a small taste of what I can only describe as safety – surrounded by walkers or not – but between rising early and going to bed late, I missed out on some sleep I needed very much. I'm at the other end of the room now. I stand on my tiptoes and peer out the window, at the courtyard. We'll have to clean out the bodies sometime today, probably before we sweep out the lower levels –

The baby starts crying. Loudly, the only way she knows how.

Like I said, her makeshift cradle is in the cell block, to the left of the door, but I can see her from where I am. And I'm the closest to her by far. I can feel the others' eyes on me, so I step tentatively into the doorway and look down at the baby. "What?"

She wails on. I blink down at her, completely out of my element.

After a while, "Gonna pick her up?" My dad, still sitting across the room. Just watching.

I'd rather hug a walker. ". . . I can't."

Carl appears in front of me. "It's easy, look . . ." He bends over the crate and scoops her up, carefully, slowly, tucking her into his chest. He smiles at me. "See?"

"She's still crying," I say, as if he couldn't hear.

"She's probably still hungry . . . Her last bottle might still be warm enough. Can you go get it?"

And so I walk back in the dining room, where Beth's already standing up, the bottle in hand. I take it from her with a muttered thanks and return to Carl. He's sitting cross-legged next to the crate now, rocking the baby. The baby doesn't like it, not enough to shut up. I sit beside Carl and pass him the bottle. He sticks it in the baby's mouth, and apparently it's plenty warm enough for her taste. The bottle plugs up her crying, at least. I've had more than enough of that, from her and me and everybody.

"Yeah, there we go . . ." Carl murmurs. He lifts her a bit, bottle and all, towards me. "Wanna do it?"

"No."

His smile lessens, and he lowers the baby back into his lap. We watch her drink for a minute. "You haven't held her at all," Carl finally says. "Don't you like her?"

I look down at the baby, all content with her bottle and her big brother and one of the soft little outfits Maggie and Dad brought back yesterday. She cries all the time. Hogs Carl. Gets called _sweetheart_ by my dad. And we had to tear open her mother to get her out. Lori would still be alive if not for this baby.

It's not the baby's fault, I know that. But I still can't help but think of it whenever I look at her.

"She's fine," I tell Carl. I can tell by his face that that's not the answer he wanted. But it's all I got.

Then, softly, softly, "Syd. What happened to your mom?"

And why, Carl, why, why, _why?_

I check the doorway. No one's there. They're still right in the next room, but for all intents and purposes, Carl and I are alone. And he wants to know what happened to my mom. My mom. Whose name he somehow knows.

"Walkers," I say. "I've told you that."

"Yeah, I know, but . . . just . . . how?"

"She-she was bit, Carl. She – we were holed up at our house – and – and I can't, I –" My feet are tangling together but then they're under me. I'm moving. I'm in the doorway by the time Carl says my name and I have to turn and look at him, I have to, because his tone is so intense. Confused. The look he's giving me pisses me off and makes me hurt all at once.

"You _saw _what happened to my mom! I'm just asking for you to _tell_ me what happened to yours! It's important!"

"Why? What do you think you'll get, tips on how to get through it? Here's a tip – you _don't!"_ I run, away from him, through the dining room and past my dad and Oscar on the stairs and outside. Onto the asphalt, over the bodies, across the courtyard. I kick the bleachers before I climb onto them. From here, I have a lovely view of those three crosses that scream of death and heartbreak, and I put my head against my knees and wrap my arms over my head.

A few days ago, I told Beth she couldn't snap at Carl. I just snapped at him about ten times worse than she did. God, I'm stupid. Stupid, a terrible person, _stupid._

But I'm afraid that telling him what he wanted to know would have been harder to bear than this.

The footsteps near. Three guesses who it is. He jumps up onto the bleachers, light as a feather. Sits down beside me.

"He needs you to be there for him right now, Sydney," my dad says. Gently.

I don't care how gentle he is about it, though. My head snaps up at the words. "I _have_ been there for him!" I snarl, scooting away and off the bleachers, gripping the hot metal with my hands as my feet land on the ground. "Every step of the way! When Lori was cut open on the floor, when someone needed to –" No. No. My words catch in my throat, and I won't talk about that. My chin falls against my chest and I huff out a breath, and I wait for my dad to scold me, to tell me not to talk to him like that, but he's quiet. So I go ahead and let it pour out of me, what happened. "He asked about Mom. How she died. I-I couldn't . . ." And the air's gone again, like last night, and I have to stop talking to wrestle for it back. Because that day is still so fresh in my mind. The bite and the yelling and Merle hauling me away from my mother . . . "And I know I saw Carl's mom die and it ain't fair of me to not even tell him about mine, but I don't care," I choke out. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want him to know about it. I don't."

Because those are my memories. Not Carl's. Mine. Mine and my dad's and Merle's. Merle's dead, though. Probably. So it's just me and my dad. And how does he not get that? That it's private?

Dad, he slides across the bleachers, so he's closer to me, and he reaches through my hair and to my neck and he massages it until I'm breathing okay again. I wait for him to tell me it's alright. But he says nothing. And that's how I know he _doesn't_ get it. He doesn't get it, he doesn't agree with me on this. And that makes the air even harder to gulp down.

But screw it. I don't need his approval. Anger courses through me now, anger at my dad, at Carl, at the nameless baby, at Rick, at Lori, at the prison. The prison. Still managing to lock people inside even when all of society has fallen apart.

Not me. It can't have me.

"I-I need to get away from the prison, for a little while. I want – can I go with Glenn and Maggie today? When they go on the run?"

I've raised my head at this point, and I see Dad's lips tighten, like he's just tasted something bad.

"Dad, please. I've gone on runs before." Never without him, but I don't point this out.

Dad thinks for a while, and I'm pretty sure he's going to say no, and I'm already preparing myself to argue when he says, "If they're alright with it, yeah, you can go. Just be careful."

He acts like it's a big deal. Really, it's not. In all of the runs our group's made, one's never gone all that wrong. This one won't be any different.

Damn it, I can't leave it like this.

"You think I should've told him about Mom."

"That's your call, babe." Which isn't a straight answer. But he kisses my forehead, so I guess things aren't that bad between us. That's good, since I really don't think I could handle it if that was the case. Not right now.

. . . . .

Maggie and Glenn hold hands during the drive. My Nana and Papaw used to do that. It's sweet. And neither of them ask about this morning, or Carl, so God bless them for that.

The place we're going to is just five miles away. I enjoy the ride. I watch out the window as Glenn drives along, and I realize I've missed being in a car. Never thought I'd say that, but it's true.

The place we go to is called Southern Discount, a store I've never heard of before. _COLD BEER AND ICE _is written on a green sign in front of it. We roll into the parking lot, still filled with lonely cars, and I jump out before Glenn finishes parking. My boots crunch on trash. As Maggie opens her door and steps down, my bow and I move forward, and I scan the lot and the road, as well as the forest beyond that. Finally I say, "I'm clear."

"Yeah, me too," Maggie agrees. To Glenn she calls, "Clear outside!"

"Alright. Let's take a look . . . Syd, stay by the hood, keep watch."

"Got it." I step to take Maggie's place as she walks around the station wagon. I don't try to listen, really, but it's not like they don't know I'm here as they kiss each other, as Maggie tells him it's a beautiful day.

And I guess it is.

I hear Glenn grunt, hear the harsh sound of him cutting through the chain someone's locked on the door. I resist the urge to look behind me. I do my job, raking my eyes over the lot. At one point, I think I see something move behind a car at the lot's edge, and I get so far as to connect my release to my bowstring. But the lot's as still as stone after that, so I relax. Sort of.

Glenn opens the store's door, and there's a flapping noise that makes all three of us start, and I have to look over my shoulder now, and I see bats zooming out of the door and over Glenn's head. Just bats. Not walkers. I hate walkers. Glenn holds up a flashlight and steps in, and I go back to watching.

"Glenn," I hear Maggie say after a moment. "Get that duck."

"What?"

"Get that duck."

"You serious?"

"Yeah. Kid growin' up in a prison could use some toys."

Glenn's inside for about fifteen minutes, Maggie standing at the doorway, me keeping an eye out. Things are nice and quiet, and finally I hear Glenn return. "We just hit the powdered formula jackpot."

"Thank God."

"Syd, I got you a book. Don't know if it's any good or not, but it's here."

"You're awesome, Glenn," I tell him.

"Yeah, don't forget it. I also got beans, batteries, cocktail wieners, honey mustards . . . It's a straight shot back to the prison from here. Probably make it in time for dinner." I hear him open one of the station wagon doors, set something inside.

"I like the quiet," Maggie says. "Back there, back home? You can always hear 'em outside the fence, no matter where you are."

Yes, you can. They're always there, the walkers, they're always –

"And where is it ya'll good people callin' home?"

That's neither of their voices and it's followed by a gun cocking and a lot of things happen inside of me.

First, there's the instinct to rush around the car, aim an arrow, and I stop my body from doing that just in time. That would only get one of us killed. Next, the instinct that I actually go with, the instinct to drop to the ground, use the car as a shield, a shield I can hide behind and listen from. And finally, after my back's against a tire, instinct disappears and it's just me inside my mind, and it hits me – I know the new voice, it's been a long time, but I know it, and oh my God, oh my God, it can't be –

Instinct kicks in again, this time with a very different opinion. I scramble up, I scramble around the station wagon. Maggie and Glenn have their guns raised and aimed at a man in front of me. A man with a shirt over his arm and a gun resting on that shirt. A man with grey hair and light blue eyes that click onto mine right away.

Something bursts open inside of me. A strangled cry is the result. _"Uncle Merle?"_

He lowers his gun immediately. "Little Bit?" he says, in a voice like a whisper but louder. Disbelieving. Then a slow grin breaks out over his face, which is covered in blood, but I couldn't care less, mine's been like that plenty of times. It's my uncle. It's Merle, it's really Merle. He's alive.

My bow clatters to the ground as I run to him.


	11. Real

For some reason Glenn tries to grab me. I twist out of his reach without missing a step. He and Maggie scream at me – didn't they hear what I said? – but I barely hear them, Merle's all I can focus on, my uncle Merle, kneeling down with open arms, and I collide into him and hug his neck, tight, so he can't get away again. His shoulders are broad and he feels strong, like always, and he laughs. It's a long, breathy laugh, the kind I've heard so well in my mind for so long but never thought I'd hear ever again in real life.

"Oh, darlin' . . . Haha . . . Oh, lemme look atcha . . . good Lord, you've grown up!"

I touch his shoulders, his head, the stubble on his chin, waiting for him to dissolve away, praying he won't. And he doesn't. He's not a dream. Or part of a nightmare. He's here and he's real. "We thought you were dead –"

"Nah, gonna take more than a cut-off hand to do your ole uncle in!"

His hand. His hand –

But Merle's taken my chin before I can look at the limb, or whatever's left of it. His grin's gone. Glenn shouts for me to _get back here!_ I pay him no mind and neither does my uncle. "Now girl, you tell me," he says solemnly. "Your daddy. Is he still alive?"

"Yeah, yeah, he's back at the –"

"Sydney, stop! Stop talking! Now!"

I whirl away from Merle, stare at Glenn. Glenn. He still has his gun up and aimed, and so does Maggie. My heart takes a bad sort of leap and I step forward, edging in front of my uncle. "What're you guys doin'? Glenn, you remember him!"

Because he does, I can see it in his face. But, with a queasy feeling, I'm suddenly thinking that that might not be such a good thing.

Merle's standing up. I can't help it, I check to make sure his gun's still on the ground. It is. Of course it is. "Yeah, Glenn, you 'member me . . ." And I don't like the way he says that. But then, "Hey. You take me to my brother, and I'll call it even on everything that happened up there in Atlanta. No hard feelings . . . huh?"

My eyes dart between my two friends, from Maggie to Glenn, but Glenn's in charge here, he's the one who knows Merle, so I go to just keeping my eyes on him, and I wait, I wait for the gun to drop, but no, no. And so I say "Glenn!" because I'm really getting scared now. I don't know all the details of what happened in Atlanta, but what if it's bad enough that Glenn thinks it's his best bet to take the shot? Glenn's gaze has moved a little, just a little, to his left. I hear Merle chuckle. "Oh, you like that?"

I turn, and Merle, he's holding up his right arm. That's the arm, then, that's the hand he lost. There's a shirt draped over it, but it's starting to fall off, and I can see a metal cylinder attached to . . . to where the hand used to be. From the cylinder sprouts a long blade. Stained. I swallow. "Yeah . . ." Merle says thoughtfully, studying the thing. "Well, I, uh, I found myself a medical supply warehouse. Fixed it up myself. Pretty cool, huh?"

I have to make myself not focus on the hand, on its replacement. It's not important. Merle's alive, that's more than I could ask for. More than I've dared hope for in months. _Merle's alive._ He found us. And my dad, my dad, he's going to be so happy . . . _I'm _so happy, and I cling to Merle's dirty shirt, because I can, because he's here, he's alive, alive, alive, alive.

Glenn's talking. "Look, we'll tell Daryl you're here, and he'll come out to meet you."

My head whips to him. "What?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on!" Merle says at the same time. "Just hold up . . ." He inches forward, and Glenn says that's far enough, stop, and I just keep twisting my head back and forth between them. What's Glenn doing? What's he thinking? This isn't some stranger! Merle's blood! "Hold up . . ." Merle has his hands in the air. I still have one of mine on his shirt. "The fact that we found each other is a miracle. C'mon now . . . You can trust me . . ."

"Sydney," Maggie says, "C'mere, get in the car."

If I'd wanted to move, I wouldn't have had the time. The metal thing that's Merle's new hand is now pressed against my chest, and the blade's pointed at the ground and twisted away from me, but I still don't like it being so close, but it's just Merle, I have to remind myself it's just Merle. "Now just trust me!" he says again, and there's a pleading note in his voice. I have never, ever heard Merle plead in all of my life.

Glenn tightens his hold on his pistol, though. "You trust _us_. You stay _here. _Now let her –"

The metal thing shoves into my chest and I'm on the ground.

I land on my back, and I roll over to my stomach as soon as I've realized what's happened, but there's already been a shout and a gunshot by then. And the sound of shattering glass. "Uncle Merle!" I scream, thinking Glenn or Maggie must've taken the shot. "Uncle Merle –" But then I'm on my feet and there he is, Merle, next to the station wagon – it's missing its back window – on the ground. Holding Maggie to him. Pressing a gun to the side of her head.

No.

Glenn's in front of them with his gun pointed at Merle.

"Hey, hey, hold up, buddy, hold up!" Merle says, but he's not pleading anymore. He's warning Glenn.

But he put his gun down! I saw it!

Maggie has her hands on Merle's metal arm, but what can she do? The barrel of the gun –

_What the hell –_

He must've had a second gun, but –

"Uncle Merle!" I scream as Glenn says something, yells something, _Let go of her, _I think, but my ears don't seem to be working right. Or maybe just my mind. Because wasn't Merle hugging me just a minute ago? Wasn't he my uncle, my poker partner, the one who snuck me ice cream when I was sick – ?

"Put that gun in the car right now . . ." Merle orders. Maggie's breathing weird, almost like she's crying, only the breaths are too dry, but it's almost worse than if there were tears, and her eyes are down on the gun that's against her cheek, and I shout again, because maybe Merle didn't hear me the first time, or maybe something's happened to his head and he's forgotten I'm here. "Uncle Merle, stop it! Stop it, let her go! _Let her go!"_

"Hush up, baby girl, the grownups're talkin'."

_Hush up. _Hush up, he says, as he's threatening to put a bullet into someone I love. He doesn't take his eyes from Glenn. "Now son, you _put that gun in the car."_

And Glenn does. He drops it through the back, where the glass used to be, before life got all flipped around.

"There ya go . . ." Merle nods. "Now we're gonna go for a little drive."

"We're not goin' back to our camp," says Glenn.

"No. We're goin' somewhere else."

My throat's closing up. "Uncle Merle –"

"Sorry, darlin', they just wouldn't let us do this the easy way . . ." Then his voice spikes up, right out of nowhere, and I have to clench my teeth, close my eyes. "_Get in the car, Glenn!_" he yells. Viciously._ "You're drivin'! Move!"_

This is one part of him I didn't remember so well. Chose not to. The shouting. His temper.

"Don't . . ." Glenn says weakly, hand out, palm showing. But there's Maggie, and there's the gun, and Glenn sighs a frightened _okay _because he has to, and he goes around to the other side of the car, the driver's side. And I'm left alone to watch as Merle makes Maggie get up. Half-yanks her to her feet.

"Sydney, you open that back door for me . . . Sydney Rose, I mean _now!"_

"Sydney!" Maggie gasps, and so my hands grapple with the door handle and I pull it open.

"Thatta girl, Princess. Now you climb on up in the front seat," Merle tells me. I mind. Just like the old days, me minding what Merle tells me. Because he's my uncle and I'm supposed to.

Good God.

I'm opening the front door as Merle drags Maggie into the back. Glenn's already in the driver's seat, turning on the car, and then we're all closed in here as the engine rumbles to life. My quiver isn't on my back anymore. I must have lost it when Merle pushed me back, when I rolled across the ground. One knife's at my waist, another is in my boot. And then there's my revolver, just waiting in my belt.

But I can't use any of them. I'm not willing to try. Because of Maggie, because of Merle. Because of me. I can't try anything.

Maybe this is a nightmare after all. Maybe it's all been a long nightmare . . . I'll wake up and Carol and Lori will be making breakfast. I'll sit by T-Dog as I eat it. Carl will be there, right next to me, where I can touch his arm any time I like, see him smile, make him laugh. And I won't go on a run with Glenn and Maggie because the prison will be a safe, comforting place to be, and they will not see Merle when they go. Merle will stay missing. I liked the missing Merle. I don't like the Merle of my nightmare.

Time to wake up, Sydney.

Time to wake up.

"Now, Glenn, you're gonna pull out right back there and take a left. Keep your hands where I can see 'em . . . Good man." My uncle laughs. "Ah, here we go, y'all, a nice little road trip . . ."

I'm not waking up.

I snake my arm across the front seat and take a handful of Glenn's sleeve as we start to move. "Glenn," I say as quietly as I can manage, but I know Merle can still hear me, and really, I guess I don't give a damn. My voice comes out cracked. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry . . ." Because somehow this is my fault. Somehow. Maggie is at gunpoint and somehow it's my fault.

Glenn looks at me, a long look with a lot of meaning behind it, and I can't even begin to figure out exactly what that meaning is. But fear has something to do with it. There's a lot of fear there.

A heavy sigh behind us. "Now, see, y'all've gone and made my little niece cry. Ain't nothin' I hate more'n that. Nothin'."


	12. Blood

The man who brought me here told me these were Merle's quarters. They're cleaner than I might've imagined Merle's quarters would be, though. The bed in the alcove is made. The brown rug on the wood floor appears to have been cleaned recently, and there's not even any food left out on the counter in the kitchen area. But I don't dwell on it much. What I dwell on is escape. What I dwell on is finding where Glenn and Maggie are and getting out of here.

I hear a lock work in the door as soon as my escort closes me in. I wait for his footsteps but hear none. Great. A lock and a guard. All for an eleven-year-old girl. For once, I wish I'd been underestimated.

I check the windows first. There's one in the kitchen area and one by the bed. They don't open. I press on them, and they're strong, but I could break them with something, probably. But then what? I'm on the second story. I can't make that jump, not without hurting myself, definitely not without attracting attention. And I don't trust any of the people I see walking along the street below me to keep their mouths shut if they see something.

People. Walking along the street. Of a _town_. Because me and Glenn and Maggie, we've managed to land ourselves in what I'm sure is the last town left on Earth. And I hate it.

Woodbury, Merle called it. He said welcome to Woodbury, as he took away my gun, the knife at my belt. He even found the one in my boot. "Haha, learn that from your daddy, huh, Little Bit? Well, he learned it from me. I'll see ya in a few minutes." Then he took away Maggie and Glenn, blindfolded, and let my escort – Crowley? – lead me up here. But not before Glenn told me, in a voice that reminded me very much of Rick, not to say a thing, not to tell Merle or anyone a thing.

Merle yanked him off before he could say another word.

And I have no idea what he's doing to them . . .

Merle. My uncle Merle. My eyes start to swell up. How did he get to this? How could this have happened? I've never felt so betrayed, so . . .

No. Stop. Can't think about that now. Escape. Escape. Merle left me with the release for my bow and I twiddle the trigger now, considering. The windows aren't an option. So what? Take out the guard, Crowley? Get him to open up the door and then try to put down a grown man three, four times my size? Quietly?

I find myself in the living area. I clench the back of the couch, this boring tan couch my mother would hate. My mother. She couldn't stand Merle. Oh, if she could see him now. I bend over the couch, contracting my fingers against the material, and I think. My dad. What would my dad do?

My dad would never have been stupid enough to get himself here. He would have seen through Merle. Seen what's happened to him. Merle, he was always out of hand, I knew that even when I was little. But he wasn't evil. He wouldn't threaten someone's life. He wouldn't kidnap anybody. If he'd been there today, Dad would have seen how he'd changed, he wouldn't have trusted him. Dad. I want him here, I want him here so bad.

"He's not here," I mutter to myself. _Snap click snap click snap click._ "Man up."

Merle said he'd see me in a few minutes. He'll have a gun, probably. What if – what if I managed to get it from him? Then it would be easier to take out Crowley, and I'd have a better chance against anyone who came to the rescue. Then . . . Well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. If I come to it.

I shove off the couch, go back into the kitchen area. I dig through some drawers. Most of them are bare, even the silverware drawer I finally find is nearly empty. Just five spoons and three forks. No knife. Doesn't he ever need to cut something up? I picture Merle slicing bread with that knife-hand of his and I'm caught between the urges to laugh and to shiver.

I sleep with my weapons close at hand. Maybe . . .

I go over to the bed. A table with a single lamp is on the left side. No knife, no gun to be found. There are two drawers in the table. The top one holds three orange bottles of pills and a few of what I think are the things called _condoms_. I close that drawer quickly. The bottom one has a pocket-sized copy of the New Testament. That's it.

I try the bathroom next, which is a desperate move, but I'm feeling pretty damn desperate. It's a small bathroom, kind of cramped, painted a gross sort of green. The mirror is broken. I can imagine how it got that way, because I've seen it happen before, with Merle and with my mother. My mother was drunk, Merle was just angry. And as I saw today, Merle hasn't really gotten over his temper issues. But it doesn't matter how it happened. Some of the shards are missing, but some are still in place, stubbornly clinging to the cork. One of these shards in particular catches my eye. It's long and thin, but wide enough that it won't snap all that easily. Hopefully. I don't know much about mirror material. I dig my fingernails beneath the shard and pull, trying to avoid cutting my fingers on the edge, if just so the blood won't give Merle any hints. Finally, the cork gives, and I have a weapon. Maybe.

Just as I turn to leave, I catch sight of something. A piece of paper slipped into the seam between the mirror and its frame. A picture. My school picture. The same one my dad still keeps.

I stare at it for a minute. Then I stare at the shard in my hand. Then I stare at my reflection through all of the cracks in the glass. How different I look from that girl in the picture.

Can I do it? Can I attack Merle? Even if I don't try to kill him . . . Can I draw his blood? The blood we share?

Tears well up in my eyes again. But no. Merle will be here any second, and even if I can't make myself fight him, I ain't gonna let him see me cry anymore. So I bring my hand to my lips and bite into my knuckle. The pain courses through me, distracting me, and the tears slip back into my eyes. I go back into the living room. I hide the shard in between the cushions on the couch. Then I sit and I wait. I've only been still for maybe thirty seconds when the lock clicks and the door opens. And my dear uncle appears before me. The door shuts, we eye each other. Merle shakes his head. He has a bandage on his nose now.

"Mm-mm-mm. Darlin', you are a sight for sore eyes, let me tell ya."

I don't say anything. Merle reaches for his metal arm. He unhooks something and the blade slides into his hand. He bends down, leans it on the wall. "I'm sorry it had to go down that way. Back on the road." He comes forward, and I edge to the middle of the couch, not wanting him to sit beside me, not wanting him touching me. He doesn't. He takes the chair from a desk in the corner and places it in front of the couch before sitting on it backwards, the way he always did. "But your friends, they were gonna take you away from me. I couldn't let that happen. Couldn't lose ya twice, Little Bit."

I want to shout that he wasn't going to lose me. That my dad was going to come get him and things would work out. I want to scream at him, ask why he's doing this, cuss him out. But I just say, "Where are they?"

"Your friends? They're with mine. Good people. Unless you treat 'em wrong. Or treat one of their _own_ wrong."

"You one of their own?"

"They think so."

"Glenn and Maggie ain't never treated you wrong."

"Maggie? That the farmer's daughter?"

Damn it. Giving him her name? Was that bad? I can't see how, but I still clamp my mouth shut.

"Hm. Well, no, she ain't ever done nothin' to me. But Glenn . . ." Merle holds up his metal arm. "Glenn did _this_ to me. I'd call that treatin' me wrong, now, wouldn't you?"

I stare at the thing. Without the blade, it just looks like a huge bullet. Not much better. "Glenn went back for you," I whisper. I hope it's a menacing whisper. "So did Dad. And Rick." I swallow. "And T-Dog. You were gone when they got to the roof. But they tried. Glenn tried."

"That right?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. Well, that just makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Don't grow my hand back, though."

I can't tell if he's trying to be funny or if he's just really bitter. Then I realize that this is Merle and so it's probably both. He leans his chin on the back of the chair. "Baby girl, truth be told, I'm over all that. Let bygones be bygones, right? My only problem with your friend Glenn is that he won't tell me where your daddy's at. And he don't want you to tell me neither. But Little Bit, this is _me_. This is your ole Uncle Merle. And all I want is for me, and you, and your daddy to be all together again. A family. Like the old days."

"If that's all you wanted, you woulda waited!" I blurt. Snap, really. "You woulda waited at that store like Glenn told you to!"

"Ooh, she bites." Merle sits up straight again. "I see the end of the world ain't curbed your temper much, huh? That's good, though. Need a little fire in ya if you're gonna make it through this life."

The shard in between the cushions. I forgot about it, somehow. But now I'm remembering it, now I'm considering it . . .

"But you caught me." Merle leans back, shrugs. "Thing is, Sydney, I ain't alone here. You saw outside. You met Crowley. There are a lotta others like him."

"Like your friends that are with my friends?"

"Yep. And some of them friends want things from me. And see, I owe them. One friend in particular . . . We call him the Governor." Merle stands and strolls around the couch, over to the refrigerator. "Y'see," he explains from the other side of the fridge door, "The Governor was there for me when no one else was." He comes out with a can of beer. An actual can of beer. He points at the fridge. "Hungry?"

"No."

He closes it up, cracks open the beer and comes over to me, leaning against the back of the couch. After a long sip – the smell brings back a good-and-bad rush of feelings and memories that I have to press down, now is not the time – he says, "The Governor saved my life. Your buddy . . . The _sheriff _. . . Rick, wasn't it? He left me to die on that rooftop, Little Bit. In the hot Georgia sun. Handcuffed to a pipe." Merle holds the metal arm in front of my face. I don't look at it, I look into his eyes. Eye contact, eye contact. "He made me do this to myself. When the Governor found me, I was d – your daddy cuss in fronta you yet?"

"Sometimes."

"I was damn near dead." A long swig of beer. "Ah. And he took me in. He gave me food, shelter, medicine. And, when I was well enough, he gave me a job. I still have that job. And I intend to do it to the best of my ability." He turns, crosses his arms across the back of the couch, so we're at the same eye level. "And part of my job right now is finding out where y'all's little settlement is."

"It ain't little."

He chuckles. Just a bit, it's really more of a snort. "Where is it, Sydney Rose? Let's get our family back together, watcha say?"

"Why do you need to know? What do you wanna do to them?" _To us?_

"Just lookin' to make some new friends. That's all."

Silence.

I could do it. Right now. I could shove my hand into the cushions, pull out the shard of mirror, drive it into Merle.

"I ain't stupid," I tell him steadily. "And I ain't tellin' you –" I lean in, inches from his face, "A _damn _thing."

I see it flash across his eyes. Anger. I hear him squeeze the beer can a little too tightly. But he just stands up. Something's changed, though. I've changed something. "You'd best watch yourself, missy. I don't wanna have to wear you out so soon after gettin' ya back." He tilts the beer up, gulps, drains it. Then he crumples it in his hand, tosses it into the kitchen trash bin, and walks back to the chair in front of me. He props a boot in the seat and rests on his knee. "Fact is, I can't make ya tell me. But those friends of yours . . . Now, that's a different story."

My heart is picking up its pace. My palms are sweaty. "Merle. What're you gonna do to them?"

"Just have a little chat."

The scene hits me like I'm in it all over again – my dad with bloody knuckles as he leaves the shed at the farm, and Carol asking him what he's done to him, to Randall, and my dad saying _had a little chat_, just like Merle . . .

"Merle. Merle, don't hurt them. Please."

"You think I wanna hurt 'em? I don't, Princess, of course I don't. But there are people dependin' on me to get some information. The Governor. And all them people who look up to him, who depend on _him_. I can't put myself before everyone else in this town. I got responsibilities."

The bastard. The son of a bitch. The absolute _bastard._

"Please," I breathe. "Please, just let them go."

Even as I say this, beg like a dog, I push my fingers in between the cushions. I find the shard, cool to the touch. Meanwhile, Merle swings his leg down from the chair, steps to me, puts one hand on either side of my legs and bends in close, to where I can smell the beer on his words. "Sugar, I'll gladly set 'em loose. You'd be doin' me a favor. All I need," he tells me softly, "is for you to tell me where your group is."

I push my hand one more inch into the couch. I wrap my fingers around the shard.

_"No."_

And then I yank the thing out and go to bury it in Merle's side. Next thing, I'm trapped against the couch, that metal arm of his pressed into my chest for the second time today.

And I've blown it. I've blown it.

Merle's hand takes my arm. "Hm-hmm," he sort of laughs, his face right in front of mine, over the shiny little weapon I just tried to attack him with. He sort-of laughs, yeah, but his eyes don't have a trace of happiness in them. Merle's eyes are . . . in pain. "What were you gonna do with that tiny thing, scratch my back for me?" He squeezes my wrist, squeezes until I have to drop the shard.

"I wasn't tryin' to kill you," I force out.

"Oh, I know that, darlin'. You just wanna protect your friends, right?" His voice deepens. "Forget about your family. Your _blood." _

He's hurting my wrist, but I won't flinch, I won't.

"Now, your uncle's gotta go take care of some business. But when I get back, you and me are gonna have a little chat of our own 'bout this incident."

It's all I can do not to punch him with my free hand. Pain in his eyes or not, I wanna hurt him _more_.

He lets me go. He heads to the door, opens it. "Crowley," he calls as he retrieves his blade from the ground. Crowley, a brown-haired man with a short, messy beard, appears in the doorway. Merle connects the blade to his metal arm. "Turns out my little niece can't be trusted alone. You stay in here with her while I'm gone. Make sure she keeps out of trouble."

Crowley nods and steps inside as Merle steps out. "Bye, baby girl," he says from the hallway. "I'll tell your friends you said hi."

He leaves and Crowley barely has time to get out of the way before I've found the mirror shard and thrown it at the closed door.

Hours pass. Just me and Crowley. Crowley doesn't start any conversations, which is fine by me. He sits by the door, stares at the ceiling. Me, I pace. Makes Crowley nervous, I think, but he leaves me be. I go into the bathroom, get my picture down, tear it to shreds and drop them all in the toilet. Have a little chat with that, Uncle Merle. And then go to hell.

My dad, Rick, the others – they'll come looking for us. They'll find my bow, my arrows, and surely Maggie and Glenn dropped some groceries. But will they be able to figure out where we've been taken? My dad, he can track any animal. But a car?

What if they don't find us?

What if Glenn and Maggie . . . ?

The last time I saw Carl, I was yelling at him. If he never sees me again, the last memory he has of me will be that one.

Night falls. Crowley turns on a lamp. I watch the street outside empty out. I almost ask Crowley why everyone's going inside but then I remember that I don't like him. The last person has just left my view when the door opens and I turn, hoping I have the energy to face my uncle again. But it's not Merle. That man in the doorway has brown skin and a backwards baseball cap and he's nodding at me. "The Governor wants to see her."

Crowley stands up as I back against the wall. "Merle okay with that?"

Something's off here. Those instincts of mine? They're buzzing. They're saying _run. _But I've got nowhere to go, and the new man sighs, frowning. Not in a mean way. But I know it can't mean anything good for me. "Does it matter?" he says, and then he holds his hand out in my direction.


	13. Calm Conversation

I'm led down the stairs of the building and out onto the street. I don't like it down here. I haven't seen what I'm seeing in so long – clean sidewalks and groomed trees. New-looking benches and signs on poles. Upright trash bins and ash trays. All down this long street, it's the old world again. Except it's empty. And that's actually the most comforting part. If there were people here, watching, staring at the small girl with the two armed guards on either side of her, that would have been the tough thing. But my buddies and me, we're alone. Without a word, they take me to the end of the street, down one alleyway, down another, to a graveled space filled with cars parked in front of a row of doors. One door is open. That's the one I'm brought to.

The room is windowless and dimly lit, light bulbs burning yellow in the corners. All kinds of junk are pressed against the wooden walls, from a green couch to painting to a mattress, and in the room's center, there's a table with a single, empty chair. And among all this, people. Four people.

Glenn is the first face I take in. He's on the table's left side. He's been beaten. His eye is black, there's blood down his face and neck, it's bad, bad enough that I cover my mouth. And holding a gun on him, closer to me, is my uncle, who glances over his shoulder as I come in. I can tell from his expression that he wasn't expecting me.

He did this to Glenn. I know he did, I know it –

But there are two other people in here. On the right side of the table. Straight across from Glenn, looking at me with wet eyes and swallowing a lot, is Maggie. Her shirt is gone and she is covering her breasts with her hands. And at the head of the table, in front of the chair but not using it, is a very tall man with a pleasant smile on his face. I know right away that this is the Governor, and I know right away that I want him dead.

"Well, well." He slowly starts around the table. I hear the door close behind me. "So you're Sydney. I've heard a lot about you, young lady."

"What's she doin' here?" asks Merle. He's backed up from Glenn – his gun's still on him, but his eyes are on me.

The Governor strolls past Maggie, trailing his fingers along her bare back as he goes. I see her flinch. He comes to the front of the table, about four feet in front of me, and rests on it, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I can see the family resemblance," he says thoughtfully. He gestures at me, at Merle. "The eyes, at least. You're prettier than Merle is, though, don't worry." He gives me another pleasant smile.

Merle's lowered his pistol. He takes a slow step towards me, and Crowley leaves my side and passes him to go stand near Glenn. Merle says, "Governor, I thought we had an agreement 'bout this."

"Our agreement was made with the understandin' that you'd find out where their camp is. You haven't come through."

"I will. Just give me a little more time, and I will." Merle's arms are in the air, like they were earlier today, right before he shot out the station wagon's back window. He gives a little laugh now, a smile. Nervous. "Now why don't we just have these boys take my niece back to my place –"

"No."

Merle shuts up. I don't look at him. The Governor's the threat. You don't take your eyes off the threat. "Sydney, could you come here, please?"

I stay where I am. Which might not be smart. But the idea of obeying this Governor like he's Dad, like he's Rick or Glenn, makes my skin crawl.

His eyes narrow at me, though. "Now."

I'm still.

Merle's just said my name when the Governor comes toward me, crossing that four feet of space between us in a blink of an eye. His hand closes around my neck, in the same place my dad rubs it, and his fingers clamp around me and he lifts me from the ground. There's a deep pain that feels like a mix of a burn and a torn muscle in the back of my neck, and the Governor gets a grip on my shirt, too, and he throws me onto the table. I land chest-first but twist my body around, skidding across the surface mostly on my side, my arm. The table is old and splintery and I feel some skin shred. And now I'm lying on the end of the table opposite the Governor. Merle's standing where he was, eyes wide. His arms are at his side, his palms open, and he's shaking his head a little. At the Governor? At me? Don't know. But I know I hate him. I know I wish he'd died on that rooftop in Atlanta. I wish he'd bled out, or better yet, not had the hacksaw at all, I hate him.

Sit up, I have to sit up. I push myself onto my knees. I touch my upper arm, the heat of the scratches hitting me first. But then there's the throbbing in my neck, my back, my shoulder, and I take a sharp breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Glenn move my way, but Crowley shakes his gun and he stops. Ow, _ow_ . . . The Governor's pleasant smile is gone. "You need to teach this one to do what she's told, Merle."

"I'll give her a whoopin' she'll never forget," Merle promises. "I'll take her back to my place right now and do it. Just hand her over."

The Governor ignores him. He presses his palms into the table. "Can we have a calm conversation, Sydney?"

As soon as I claw your eyes out. As soon as there's an arrow in your head.

"Sydney, answer him." That was Maggie. I look. She's pleading with me. I take my hand off my arm. My palm's slick with blood.

"Alright," I tell the Governor quietly.

"Good. Now, your people here haven't been very cooperative with us. But you will be, right?"

" . . . I'm not going to tell you where the camp is."

"No?" He pulls a gun. He points it at Maggie. "Even if I do this?"

"Don't –" I fall silent.

"What? Don't kill her?"

Maggie's not looking at me, or the Governor. She's looking at Glenn. Glenn's looking at her. Glenn looks like he might be crying, and I can't breathe, and I press my palms over my eyes – and I think of everyone back at the prison, I think of my dad, and Carl, and the little baby, and all of them, we have to protect all of them, not just ourselves, I have to protect all of them, not just Maggie, not just Glenn –

"Look at me, Sydney!" barks the Governor, and I slam my hands down. "What if I kill Glenn? Or you?" And for the first time in my life, I'm looking down the barrel of a loaded gun.

I see Merle move forward just as Maggie says, "The prison!"

And I realize that I was never the target here.

I tune out the conversation then, like I do sometimes. I don't want to hear any more of it. Because now they know where we are. Now they're a threat. To all of us. Maggie gives some more information, our size, I think. But the big secret's out. They have us. They have us. The next thing I'm really, totally aware of is the Governor standing by Maggie, stroking her face, whispering in her hair, pulling her close, and then I'm screaming all sorts of things at him, screaming, screaming, and the Governor makes a signal at Crowley and he lets Glenn get by him to Maggie, and the Governor's gone, and I'm scrambling off the table to try and get to Maggie and Glenn, but Merle's in the way. He scoops me up with one arm and tosses me over his shoulder, and I kick and hit him and thrash around but he doesn't let go, and we leave the stuffy room and go out into the fresh night air, the door behind us closing Maggie and Glenn away from me, and an animal sort of wail comes from my mouth and I go limp and quiet, not caring anymore. Merle eventually takes me from his shoulder and just holds me in his arms, the metal one painful against my back, and somewhere inside of me I want to twist and get down, I don't want him holding me like this, but I'm so tired. I'm so tired. I look at the stars for a minute and then close my eyes because they make me homesick. Walking. A door. Stuffy air again. Stairs. Walking some more. A door again. A couch. A lamp switches on. Metal against metal. Merle's hand on my arm, in my blood.

"Ain't deep. You hurt anywhere else? Sydney. Sydney Rose! You hurt anywhere else?"

I open my eyes. "No." I'm not sure if that's the truth, but I don't want to give him any more information about anything ever again.

He stands. The blade's gone from his metal arm. He goes into the bathroom. I hear clutter move around. He's back, with a rag and some rubbing alcohol. "Don't touch me," I whisper, but he does anyway and I don't bother pulling my arm away. I'm exhausted. The rag is wet. The alcohol burns. Merle's knuckles are bloody.

"Darlin', I . . . I didn't know he was gonna bring you in there. You gotta know. If I did, I . . ." But I guess Merle doesn't know what he would've done. He screws the cap back on the alcohol. "You should . . . You should eat somethin' . . ."

Just as he gets up, there's a two-beat knock on the door. My uncle runs his hand over his scalp. "Yeah?"

The door opens. It's Crowley. "Governor wants you. He's havin' a meetin' in his quarters. Just you and Milton and Martinez. And I think Elsie."

"Elsie?" Merle steps forward, fast enough to make Crowley edge back, tense up. "What the hell does she know about it?"

"Don't know. Just saw her go in."

Merle ducks his head, turns it my way, but doesn't quite look at me. Looks at my shoes, maybe. I don't know. I want to go to bed. My bed. In my cell. With my dad humming to me like he only does after really rough days. It's been a rough day.

"Stay with her," says Merle, and then it's just me and Crowley. He sits in his chair and we ignore each other, just like old times.


	14. The Meeting

Not long after Merle leaves, I go to the bathroom to wash the blood from my hand. Then I look over my injury, and it's not great. The worst of the scrape is on my upper arm, just below my shoulder, but there's skin broken nearly all the way to my elbow. And I've got splinters in me. With just my fingernails, I claw three big ones out of my flesh, but it's no use with the rest. Jesus, a lot of them are in really deep. I could look around for a needle, dig them out. But some are at an angle hard to reach, and honestly, I'm just not up for it. They'll get worse if I leave them in, won't they? But I can't make myself do it. My dad's good at getting out splinters. My head's tired. I go back into the living room and think about lying down, but my body's fine, only my mind needs rest. So I pace, snap-clicking my release. My release. Reminds me of home.

Glenn. Maggie. What're they going to do to them? They've told these people what they wanted, shouldn't Woodbury let them go? But somehow, in a way I can't quite touch on, that doesn't make sense. And even if Maggie and Glenn are released, Merle's not going to let me leave with them . . .

I want my dad. To get my splinters out, to hold me. And now here's this horrible idea in my head, that I'll never again see my dad, never again go hunting with him or curl up in his arms or kiss his scratchy face –

No. I'm not even making sense now.

I finally lie on the couch, burying my head into it, trying to pretend Crowley's not here, that I'm truly alone. My body still wants to move, but pacing hasn't helped my head the way it usually does. Sleep. If I could get some sleep, just a little sleep . . .

Next thing I know, gunshots. I spring up. Did I sleep? _Gunshots –_

To the window, the kitchen window, where I press my hand against the pane. The air outside is filled with fog. No, it's not fog, it's smoke. Or something. Smoke bombs? Did we have anything like that? Because of course it's us, it's my people. My dad, Rick, others. Nothing else makes sense. They're here. I'm going to be alright, they're here.

"Shit!" says Crowley, backing up from the glass, which is probably what I should do, but I can't look away. Right below me, through the smoke, the shapes of people move around, darting, dodging, shooting guns that flash in the dark. I can't tell who anyone is, can't tell which ones are mine and which ones aren't. I hear yelling but I can't tell one voice from another, because they're all jumbled together, but guns start going off from the roof across the street and I finally make myself sink to the floor, taking cover, while Crowley gapes at the window from a safe distance, hand on his pistol, off, on, off.

My group – how they'll find us is beyond me, but how they could have found Woodbury in the first place blows my mind, so surely they'll figure something out. Get Maggie and Glenn. Get me. All without losing anyone. Right? No one dies?

We're rarely that lucky, though, are we?

My relief is overrun by fear and I slip lower down the wall, chewing my knuckle, waiting out the shots and the shouts. It all lasts for a while. Then it stops, kind of suddenly. I wait a full minute before I rise and check outside. Smoke's cleared up. Street's a mess. I see three people race by right below me. I see two fast-walking a ways down the street. And I see a body over there, slumped across a bench. Whose body? From which side? Are there more? Crowley keeps cussing over my head and it's oddly comforting. So is the throbbing from my scraped arm. And the sharp pain I feel in my collarbone every time I look up.

We wait for a while, Crowley and me. We wait for Merle to come in and tell us the situation. Or we wait for my dad to break in and rescue me. Or we wait for somebody to bring in my uncle's dented metal arm, or my dad's bloody crossbow, or Rick's revolver, or Carl's hat –

When the door finally opens, I snap my head up and feel a stab in that collarbone of mine, but I hardly notice it, because it's not Merle or my dad. It's somebody. And that somebody is the Governor. Only the Governor has changed a lot since I saw him last. There's a white bandage over his head, holding padding to his right eye, covering it up. And the Governor does not have a pleasant smile on this time around. With his one good eye, he is looking at me like I am the root of every one of his troubles, the core of all evil in the world.

I'm on the couch when he comes in. He doesn't give Crowley so much as a sideways glance. He comes forward, not bothering to shut the door. His boots are heavy. _Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. _

"Get a front row seat to the show?" he asks in a low voice. The lamp in the corner is the only light on, and the resulting shadows playing on the Governor's face make it look sharper, angrier. Or, no. Maybe he just really is angrier than last time. Somehow. His voice sounds like it. I squeeze the cushion below me. He asked me something. Front seat, right. I nod, slowly. Don't you look away from him, Sydney Rose Dixon. Don't you look away.

"Crowley," the Governor says. "Give us a minute."

And Crowley, being the good guy he is, leaves immediately.

The Governor then has a hand in my hair. Shit. He's yanking my head back, and I'm crying out –

"That hurt?" he hisses. I bite into the side of my cheek, and he pulls harder, and my teeth tear out a chunk of my own flesh. "I said _that hurt?"_

"_Yes!"_

His face is right by mine, then. His mouth is to my ear. "You don't know what pain is. You have no. _Idea."_

He's going to kill me. Merle will come back and find my blood on the floor, and maybe the Governor will leave a body, maybe he won't – my scalp's on fire. My collarbone feels like it's trying to bust loose from my skin, and the Governor's right here, whispering to me. "But you will. You _will_. Soon, oh soon, my sweet child –" Here his free hand strokes my free hair, my back – "Soon, you will."

Go to hell. Bite me. Kiss my ass. All perfectly good options for a time like this. But all that comes from my mouth is a gurgling, squealing sound. And then the Governor lets me go. He stands up straight. He's smiling again. I prefer his scowl. A tear runs down my cheek. The Governor wipes it away. I try to let him, but I can't. A second of his thumb on my skin, and I have to shove his arm back, I have to. It makes him grin. Then there are footsteps from the hall. Merle in the doorway. "Governor?"

The Governor turns.

"What's goin' on here?"

The Governor moves to him, looks at me, looks at Merle. "I'm calling a town meeting, to take place in a half-hour. Usual place."

Merle nods once. "I'll be there."

"Bring Sydney."

I don't want him saying my name.

"Now, Governor, she's had a long day. I'd like to get her to sleep soon's I can."

Like I'm five. Shit, that doesn't matter now. Shit, shit, shit, my head hurts, my neck hurts, my arm hurts, _shit –_

"Fine," the Governor breathes, "I've already told Elsie not to come tonight. But maybe she can babysit instead?"

Elsie. Crowley said that name earlier, said she was meeting with the Governor and some others. And now the Governor's using her as a threat, and I don't want to find out why, not personally, anyway, but I also have no desire to attend any town meetings.

For a long time, Merle and the Governor stare at one another. Eventually, though, Merle says, "Sydney'll be at the meetin'."

And the Governor leaves. Just like that.

Merle looks at me. "He hurt you?"

I shake my head. Merle closes the door, and to his back I ask, "Any of my people dead?"

"A black man in a prison jumpsuit. The others all got over the wall."

Oscar's dead, then. But the others . . . "Glenn and Maggie, too?"

"Yep. Funny how your people left you here, though, hm?" He turns around, falls against the door. "You tried so hard to protect 'em, and they just lit out on ya."

I'm quiet. But, deep inside of me, there's a needling voice that reminds me that he's technically right. That needling voice kind of hurts. I don't think that hurt shows on my face, but Merle still says "Not fun, is it?" and taps on his metal arm. "Believe me, I know."

"They're comin' back for me."

"You so sure?"

"My dad wouldn't leave me. Neither would –" I almost say _Carl, _but then I think better of it – Merle doesn't need to know about him – and I change my argument to something that's more accurate, anyway. "Neither would any of the others."

My uncle blows out a short breath, eyeing me with his lips all curled up. But then he just pushes himself off the door and goes to Crowley's chair, removing his arm blade as he goes. And if he's not going to argue, I ain't either. Instead I say, "What's gonna happen at the town meetin' tonight?"

"Can't say I know."

"Why would the Governor want me there?"

Merle doesn't answer. His blade slides from his arm and he examines it in the lamplight before sitting down. I glare at him. "He just threatened me," I say through my teeth, "He might wanna kill me –"

"He ain't gonna kill ya. Not s'long as I'm there." Merle leans forward, clasping his real hand over his fake one. He looks me right in the eye and says, "I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to ya, Princess, you got my word."

I plant both of my feet in the ground and shoot up, turning. "You see my arm?"

Merle sees it.

"He threw me across the room!" All of that hatred I felt towards Merle back in that stupid room sort of got overpowered by my feelings towards the Governor, but all that hatred, the fury, it's rushing back into me. And Merle, he just thinks a moment and then shrugs.

"Well, you ain't dead, are ya?"

I almost laugh. If I wasn't so hurt and pissed, I'd laugh. Because the whole thing is just that ridiculous. "I don't wanna go to that meetin'," I end up saying. "Just lock me in here, what am I gonna do?"

"Says the little girl who came at me with a shank."

"Then get that woman – Elsie. Let her stay with me. Whoever she is, I'd rather see her than the Governor again." Wait, do I mean that? I don't know who Elsie is, or why Merle doesn't like her. But then I think about the Governor pulling my head back like he was handling an animal, and I clench my fists and shout, _"I don't wanna see that Governor again!"_

"Well, little missy, that ain't your call."

And now I feel like I'm being drained. Of energy, of will. Like it's being sucked right out me, like that shout was the last bit of fire I had to my name. My head's going all tired again, just from standing here, eye-to-eye with someone I used to love. Used to love a lot. When I was really little, back before my dad moved out and even for a while after, whenever I would get in trouble or get hurt, I would cry for Uncle Merle. Even if he was nowhere in the house, I'd cry for him. If he happened to be there, he'd pick me up, sometimes say something like "What're y'all doin' to my sweet little niece?" More often, though, it'd be more along the lines of "Dry up, girl, you're s'posed to be tougher'n that." But even then, he'd make me feel better. Just his arms could make me feel better. The smell of smoke on his clothes.

And here we are now.

"What happened to you, Merle?" I whisper.

He stands. "Same thing that happened to you, darlin'. You're lookin' at me like I'm the devil himself . . ." He bends down, gets our faces real close. "But the little girl I knew would never, no matter what, try to spill her uncle's guts all over the floor. So maybe you should take a good long look in the mirror before you go tellin' me just how far from grace I've fallen."

He goes into the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on, and I'm still standing in the same place, because I don't quite trust myself to move. He's right. Merle's right. In a way. Before the walkers came, guns were for squirrel hunting and arrows were my dad's thing. I didn't know what a trigger release was. I'd never eaten raw meat and I thought canned dog food was disgusting. I had no idea what the inside of a human head looked like. I'd never stood over the dead body of someone I cared about and prepared to put a bullet in her head. I couldn't have. Like I couldn't have tried to bury a mirror shard into my uncle's ribs. He's right. He's right.

I'm eleven years old.

"_My mom just . . . treats me like a kid." _

Carl'd said that to me in the thicket, that cold but nice thicket, long after night had fallen on the second day of being lost and we were well into touching on every conversation topic we could think of. Even the harder ones. Come to think of it, that might be how he learned my mother's name. We were sitting on his coat and wrapped up in mine, trying to get as much heat as we could from the fire and from each other – easier for me, since he was already coming down with fever – and I remember how the orange glow played in the blue of Carl's eyes as he murmured, "And with everything I've done? I mean, all we've been through? After Dale died, my dad told me no more kid stuff. And that's how it has to be. I'm not a kid anymore."

And I'd agreed with him. But I shouldn't have. He was a kid. He is a kid. And so am I. We're kids who have to act like adults sometimes. But we're kids.

I tried to stab my uncle. Not to death. And it was just part of my escape plan.

But was it? Was it really just because I was desperate to break out of here? Or did I . . . Did I want to stab him? Did I want to make him hurt after he'd hurt me so bad? _Did I want to stab him?_

I really don't know.

But either way, I tried to.

I tilt my head back as far as it'll go and my collarbone is on fire. Good. I stay like that, blinking back tears, until the uncle I tried to stab comes out of the bathroom with a wet head but the same clothes he had on before and says let's go meet with our friend the Governor.

Outside, I see bullet shells and I see dark puddles and I see that the bench where the body was has been taken away, but I say nothing about any of it. The street's still mostly empty, but there are a few people walking the same direction we are, none of who look our way. Ten steps ahead of us, one woman clings to another, sobbing, and we pass them by, Merle tugging me around them before I shrug him off. The wails follow us for a long time.

At the end of the asphalt road, there's a roughly square space surrounded by huge torches on every side but one, with bleachers set up on two of the sides, across from each other. The bleachers remind me of the prison, except the bleachers there are always empty and these are packed full, full of so many people that it makes me uncomfortable. I didn't used to mind crowds, really, but now I feel very on edge being a part of one. Merle takes me around to a corner of the square, where the man with the backwards baseball hat stands with some other armed guys, Crowley included. Merle and me come to a stop beside them, about a step ahead of where most of them are. I look around. The bleachers are actually overflowing, and there are still more people arriving. It's hard to see the details of faces with just the torch light to help, but I can still tell that there's more than one kid in the crowd. So everyone comes to the town meetings, not just grownups. I begin to relax a little. Maybe the Governor only wants me here because he's trying to force me to become a part of Woodbury. That I can handle, no problem.

The chatter continues for a good five minutes and stragglers show up and find seats, and then a hush comes over everyone as the Governor appears from the darkness and takes his place in the center of the square. He's wearing a long, dark jacket that reminds me of a storybook villain. The bandaged eye doesn't help. And is it my imagination, or does he find my face before he starts speaking?

"What can I say?" his voice echoes out. "Hasn't been a night like this since the walls were completed. And I thought we were past it . . . Past the days when we all sat, huddled, scared, in front of the TV . . . during the early days of the outbreak." His slow words are matched with slow steps and his shoulders are slumped. He sounds very tired, very different from how he was earlier, in Merle's quarters, alone with me. "The fear we all felt then . . . We felt it again tonight."

The silence of the people is almost creepy. Or maybe what's almost creepy is the way so many of them are leaning forward, mouths open, eyes glassy. Hanging on the Governor's every word. I trace my fingers over the cuts in my arm, gently, so as not to disturb any of the bits of wood lodged there.

"I failed you," says the Governor. "I promised to keep you safe . . . Hell, look at me!"

And I do. I see a bastard who has something wrong with one eye and, as far as I'm concerned, a target on his other one. He's talking some more. I wish he'd stop talking and let us go. Let me go. "Y'know," he tells his people, "I . . . I should tell ya that we'll be okay. That we're safe. That tomorrow we'll bury our dead and endure, but I . . . I won't. 'Cause I can't. 'Cause I'm afraid. That's right. I'm afraid of _terrorists _who want what we have! Who wanna destroy us!"

Terrorists? Yeah, they wanted what you had, Governor. Their own damn people. "You son of a bitch . . ."

I barely breathe it, but Merle still pinches my shoulder.

"And worse . . ." The Governor's saying now, his dead-looking eye – and I know what a dead eye looks like – sweeping over the crowd. "Because one of those terrorists . . . is one of our own."

Murmurs throughout the crowd. And then the Governor's raising his arm. And he's pointing at the supposed terrorist in question. Who is standing beside me.

_"Merle!"_

My blood goes cold as the crowd gasps. I feel my uncle stiffen.

"A man I counted on!" The Governor's voice is shaky. Merle twists around, looks behind him, and I do the same, and I see that the man with the backwards hat has a gun pressed against my uncle.

"A man I trusted . . ."

"Merle," I whisper. Because I'm suddenly very scared of what's about to happen.

"He led 'em here!" barks the Governor.

Two new men move in on Merle. Push me away.

"He let 'em in!"

Is that true? "Merle!" I hiss, stumbling back, my heart beating in my ears, and my uncle, he meets my eyes and doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to, that look says it all. _Stay back._ "Merle . . ."

The men, they take Merle's gun. They take his arm blade from his belt. Then they back off and the Governor shakes his head at the now unarmed Merle like a disappointed father would. "It was _you," _he snarls. "You _lied. _Betrayed us all!_"_

Backwards Hat still has the gun in Merle's back, and a black man close by has his crossbow up and aimed at Merle. Either one of them could twitch their finger and –

Backwards Hat gives Merle a push, and my uncle goes forward, swinging his arms, chin high, I'll give him that, his chin's high, and no, they can't – no –

Wait a minute.

That man has a crossbow. The man next to Backwards Hat has a crossbow. Which wouldn't be that strange, really, if I didn't know the crossbow. And my heart goes from pounding to being completely still. And as my eyes move from the man and the crossbow to my uncle and the Governor, I see that three more figures have appeared in the corner opposite mine. Two of them are holding the third between them. The third is fighting like hell and has a bag over his head. Now two of them are dragging the third towards the center of the square, towards the Governor and Merle. The third has his hands tied behind his back and is wearing a vest I know very, very well. Even better than the crossbow.

"This," says the Governor as the third is shoved towards him, "is one of the terrorists."

I want to scream. But everything about me is frozen up, rigid, like clay. A statue. Except my insides. They're boiling and twisting and choking good things from every part of me. The Governor rips the bag from the third man's head. And I stagger forward, because of course it's my dad. Of course it is.

"Merle's own brother!"

I've almost lost my balance, but I don't, and I try to look at Merle, can't, can't take my eyes off Dad, who can't take his eyes off Merle, and the Governor pushes my dad closer to my uncle, and I open my mouth, I still want to scream, but I still can't, so I try to run, but then someone's grabbing me from behind and that makes everything work again, everything, and my insides tell my outside what to do, and I boil over and yell, I yell "Dad! _Dad!"_ and now my dad's eyes come to mine and I've never seen his face look the way it does right now and I think he says my name and then the Governor's in front of me and blocking my view and his hand is choking me for real and his eye is level with mine and the arms disappear from around me but the Governor's touching my face and I hear my dad yelling but not as well as I hear the Governor mutter, "_This_ is what pain is." And then he throws me back to the trapping arms and they trap me indeed and the Governor's addressing the crowd.

"What should we do with them, huh?"

My dad and my uncle. What should we do with my dad and my uncle? We should kill them, says the crowd. Kill 'em, kill 'em, kill 'em.

"What?" says the Governor.

Kill them, Governor. They're saying we should kill them. My dad, with his hands tied behind his back, seeing the brother he thought was dead, here and alive and about to not be, if the crowd has their way. Can't you hear them, Governor? They're saying we should kill them. They're shouting it, begging for it. Even the kids. Every face, every single face, is grimacing, and every hand is pointing, and every mouth is crying it out, _kill them, kill them, kill them. _Kill them. The daughter, the niece, she's over here on her knees, trying to breathe, trying to break away from the arms of Backwards Hat, but none of the crowd pays attention to her. Everyone wants blood. Apparently they haven't seen enough.


	15. Escape

When Andrea bursts through the crowd – it's off the bleachers now, the crowd, everyone's gathered in a tight circle and screaming for Dad and Merle to die – I'm relieved. Because Andrea is dead. Which means that this, all of this, is just another one of my bad dreams. Even in a bad dream, though, Andrea is being nice. She shoves her way past some of the Governor's men – no, now one's grabbing her arms and holding her back – and she tells the Governor that he can't do this. The Governor barely looks at her. He says it's not up to him anymore. The people have spoken. Andrea looks shocked, but it's okay, Andrea, it's just a dream. And now, as someone cuts my dad's hands loose, the Governor's pointing at Merle, reminding him that he said his loyalties lie with Woodbury, and now is his chance to prove it. There's a drip of blood coming from the Governor's eye bandage. And he's saying the words _brother against brother. _Winner goes free. Fight to the death.

Bad dream. Bad dream. Very bad dream, and I need to wake up. Right now. This feels so real, though, right down to the arm around my chest. I reach up and touch it. Yep, seems very real. I'm in a deep sleep, and I need to come out of it, right now. Right now.

Andrea begs. But people are cheering and she gets drowned out. Yes, they're cheering. They like this _fight to the death _plan. My dad and my uncle look at each other, and then my uncle lifts his fist high in the air. "Y'all know me!" he shouts to the people. "I'm gonna do whatever I gotta do to prove –" He punches my dad in the stomach and my dad falls, coughing.

"– that my loyalty –" Merle kicks Dad as he's starting to get up – "is to this town!"

People are screaming with joy, with excitement, chanting Merle's name like he's a hero. Except me. I'm pretty sure I just called him a son of a bitch. Wake up, Sydney. Wake up, please. Please. Please. But I don't wake up. Instead, I watch some men bring walkers into the square, walkers with their heads caught at the end of poles. The men direct the walkers towards Merle and Dad, keeping the things on the poles but close, so close, and the crowd goes wild. And it's at that point, at what would be the worst part of the nightmare, that I decide to accept that it is not a nightmare at all. And just as Merle makes a grab for Dad and Dad nails him across the chin instead, I start to thrash around. These arms around me have become my number one worst enemy. I will take care of them and then I will go after Merle. I will go after the Governor. But right now, these arms. I kick and claw and the arms squeeze, both of them wrapping around me like rope. "Stop it, kid," someone, I think the owner of the arms, is saying. "You'll only make it worse for yourself –"

I ignore him, steal a glance at Dad and Merle. Dad's on the ground again, Merle's over him, but Dad has his hands around Merle's neck, so –

And then my uncle is yanking my dad to his feet and they're back to back, hands up. Four walkers on poles surround them, but the two of them aren't fighting each other anymore, and I might try and figure out what just happened if I didn't have to focus so much on getting these arms away from me. I'm biting one right now, hard, and the hand grabs my hair and tries to pry me off, but I'm stubborn, I've always been stubborn, and I just bite until I'm tasting blood and the person holding me is grunting in pain and we're both on the ground, and he tries to get me off of him and he does but I take some skin with me. I hear punching noises from the square. And the arms have loosened. For just a moment, the arms have loosened, and sometimes, being small can come in handy. Like when you can scramble out from someone's grasp before they even know you're gone. I look back and see that it's been Backwards Hat holding me, that he's clutching his arm, and I have just enough time to check over at the square and see the Governor standing calmly on the sidelines – as my dad and my uncle fight walkers – when one of the walkers is hit by a bullet and slumps to the ground and people scream, not in excitement anymore, it's fear, fear, fear. Another body falls, this time a woman in a baseball hat, and Backwards Hat is reaching for me and I kick his hand and scramble away, and smoke begins to erupt from somewhere – there, that thing, it looks like a can, sort of, but it's pouring out smoke and now people are running, shouting, and the guns from somewhere keep going off and off and off.

I told Merle they'd come back.

I roll onto my elbows and crawl, fast, over to the bleachers. I have to work by memory, since the smoke's pretty much covering everything up. It doesn't seem like normal smoke, but I don't think about it now. My hand touches onto the cool bleachers and I prop myself up on them, coughing. I listen to the pounding footsteps, the guns, the cries, and what I think is my uncle grunting and a skull being pounded into a pulp. A woman – Andrea, it's Andrea – calls my dad's name. Then mine.

_Andrea? _

But this isn't a dream! And Andrea – we thought –

"Sydney!"

That was my dad. I forget Andrea, I look up, but I can't see a thing through the yellow smoke, except barely-there flashes of people from all over. "I'm here!"

A moment passes, and then a figure comes running out at me. Not my dad. Merle. He swings me up into his arms before I can even think about if it's a good idea to let him. "I got her, Daryl! Go!"

I don't understand how Merle knows which direction to take until I look in the direction he's chosen and I see a white, round light through all the dull yellow. And after a few of Merle's strides, the smoke is thin enough to where I can see my dad running in front of us, I can see him jerk his crossbow out of the hands of the bastard who took it, and the smoke's almost completely absent here and Merle and me are following Dad, who's following Rick, who's with Maggie, and we all break away from the other people as they stream from this opening to somewhere. We're running for a while, and then it's quiet, the sounds of terrified people just background noise, and we're heading down a path bordered on both sides by a picket fence and now we're out onto grass, and now asphalt. We're behind two buses that I think make up part of the wall, I can't remember, and Merle's putting me down. "They're all at the arena! This way!"

"You're not goin' anywhere with us!" says Rick in one his worst voices, and his gun's aimed at the ground, but the look on his face tells me he wouldn't at all mind pointing it at Merle instead.

"You really wanna do this now?" Merle goes in between the two buses, where a piece of fence is, and it's a tall fence, made of some sort of metal. Tin? Is tin that strong?

"C'mere, baby girl –"

My dad. My dad. My dad's down beside me and I let him pull me to him and I throw my arms around his neck and I hold him as tightly as I can manage, even though he's sweaty, because he's my dad and he's here and he's fine and I'm fine and I'm safe now. "Daddy . . ."

He sighs into my hair. "Just so you know, you ain't ever leavin' my sight again," he says in a strangled voice I've only heard a handful of times in my life, and I tell him okay, because that doesn't sound half-bad right now.

There's a bashing sound from Merle and the gate. Dad separates himself from me and cups my face, moves my head back and forth. Checking me over. "You alright? Nobody hurt ya?" Even as he says this, he touches on my scraped arm, and he either feels the cuts or sees me flinch because then he's turning me to get a better look, and his fingers graze over my damaged skin. "What happened to your arm?" He's looking up before I can answer. "_Merle! _What happened to her arm?"

There's a loud bang and the piece of metal in front of my uncle opens up, gaping big enough for him to pass through, and he does just that. "You wanna fix her boo-boos or you wanna get her outta here?"

Dad stands. "C'mon," he says even as he pulls me along with him through the hole in the fence, after Merle, before Maggie and Rick. Maggie. She looks okay. But where's Glenn? Merle said he got away, but –

There it is again, the crack-squish noise of a skull being broken through. Merle's already put a walker down, beating its head into the road with his metal arm, even though there's no blade attached to it. He looks up at us. "A little help would be nice!"

More walkers are coming, coming down this nice suburban road, and I reach for the bow I don't have and my dad steps up and shoots an arrow into the nearest walker. Maggie puts a bullet in one, then Rick does the same with another, and I very much hate not having a weapon on me. There are more making their way down here, too . . .

"We ain't got time for this!" yells Merle, and he runs off, and Dad nudges me after him.

"Go, go – _let's go!" _But I don't think that last part was to me, because I look back, and Maggie and Rick trade a bad sort of look before they run after us, and I can see that they don't like it, they don't like running with Merle. Of course not. That makes three of us. But my dad's following Merle, and so that's the only option that makes sense, and so that's the option I go with.

For now.


	16. Packaged Deal

It's dawn when we reach the road the car's parked on. We've been trekking through the woods for a while when it comes into view, my old friend Silver, and Glenn's there, Glenn and someone Dad called Michonne. She's the one who went to the prison and told my group where Merle had probably taken us. I didn't pick up much else, except that she doesn't like Merle and Merle seems to think it's funny. I'm tired. I haven't really slept in twenty-four hours, and it hasn't been the easiest twenty-four hours of my life, either. But now we're nearing Silver and soon we'll be back to the prison. To Carl. Food. My cell. My bed.

Rick calls out to Glenn when we're close enough, very quietly, almost like a cough. Through all the trees, I can see Glenn sitting on the road, see his head jerk up, see him jump to his feet and jog our way. I can tell that he doesn't look good, that it hurts him to move, and Merle's right here, and then, _that_ must be Michonne, and you know, I think this little reunion might go kind of badly. I guess Rick does, too, because as Glenn and us come together, with Glenn saying thank God, Rick raises his hand and says, "Now, we've got problem here, I need you to back up –"

He's interrupted by a metallic hissing sound. Michonne's drawn a sword, a real, actual sword, from her back, and now Glenn's gun's up, his broken face is twisted, and he's shouting, _"What the hell is he doing here?"_

Then there's a short period of mixed together yells and I see a nice-looking tree off to the right. I go to that tree, and I sit at its base, pulling my knees to my chest and watching Rick stand between Michonne and Merle and Dad stand between Glenn and Merle and Maggie point her gun at Michonne while tossing wild, scared looks over at her boyfriend.

"He tried to kill me!" Michonne shrieks once. She's a muscled black woman with dreadlocks and, at the moment, animal eyes that focus over Rick's shoulder and on my uncle. Rick has his revolver pointed at her head, and she's not moving, but she looks pretty bloodthirsty, Michonne.

And Glenn, Glenn's yelling, "Look what he did! If it wasn't for him, Maggie could've –"

I know Glenn's not aiming to shoot my dad, but Dad's in between Glenn and Merle, so it kind of looks that way, and I don't like it. Dad's saying, "No, he helped us get outta there, _drop it –"_

"Yeah, right after he beat the shit outta you!" Rick barks, giving my dad a look.

"Hey," protests Merle, pressing his back against a tree while Dad and Rick guard him, "We both took our licks, man."

"Jackass," my dad mutters.

"Hey, shut _up_ –"

"Enough!" shouts Rick. We're being louder than we should be. I want my bow. Just then, Michonne presses forward with her sword, Rick shoves his gun in her face, Maggie yells something, Glenn acts pissed and still has his gun up. Dad takes a step closer to him, says, _"Get that thing out of my face!"_

And Merle's laughing.

"Hey . . . Looks like you've gone native, brother!"

"No more'n you hangin' out with that psycho back there!"

"Oh, yeah, man, he is a charmer, I gotta tell ya that . . ." His eyes drift over to Michonne and her scary, scary blade. "Been puttin' the wood to your girlfriend Andrea big-time, baby . . ."

I turn my head to scan for walkers and end up watching a walking stick stroll across a log. I like walking sticks, they're cool.

"What?" Glenn's saying, all out of breath. "Andrea's in Woodbury?"

"Yeah, right next to the Governor," answers Dad, not yelling anymore, which is nice.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Michonne step forward again, wave her sword again, and then there's Rick: _"I told you to drop that! _You know Andrea? Hey! Do you know Andrea?"

"Yep, she does," drawls Merle. I wish he'd shut up. "Her 'n Blondie spent all winter cuddlin' up in the forest, mm-mm-mm . . ."

The walking stick crawls out of sight and I keep on staring at its log, hoping it shows back up.

"Yeah . . . My Nubian queen here had two pet walkers. No arms, cut off the jaws, kept 'em in chains."

That's weird.

"Kind of ironic, now that I think about it –"

"Shut up, bro!"

Merle just grins at Dad. "Hey, man, we snagged 'em outta the woods, Andrea was close to dyin' . . ."

"There's no way she's with him," Maggie says.

The walking stick doesn't come back and I'm about ready to give up on it.

"Yeah," Merle insists. "Snug as two little bugs. So whatcha gonna do now, Sheriff, huh? Surrounded by a buncha liars, thugs, 'n cowards –"

"Shut up!" Rick's about had it with my uncle, I can tell.

"Whoa, man, look at this . . . _Pathetic! _All these guns, 'n no bullets in me . . ."

Dad moves right up to him. _"Shut up!"_

Because telling him that has worked so well so far.

"_Shut up yourself!"_ For the first time, Merle stands up straight, temper about to blaze, I can tell. "Buncha pussies you run with –"

That's when Rick knocks him on the head with the butt of his pistol and I get the first moment of peace I've had in a full day. "Asshole."

I take back every bad thing I've ever thought or said about him.

. . . . .

"It won't work," Rick's saying later, as him and Dad and me and Maggie and Glenn circle around each other on the road. Discussing.

"It's gotta," says my dad.

"He'll stir things up." Meaning Merle. Merle, over by that tree way in the woods, leaning on it and groaning like he's at death's door.

"Look, the Governor's probably on the way to the prison right now," my dad points out, calmly. I'm in between him and Rick, which might help. "Merle knows how he thinks, and we could use the muscle."

Dad brought my bow and arrows with them. My bow's now on my shoulder and my quiver's now on my back and I'm whole again, which is probably the only reason I have the energy to stand here with these four right now, even if I am only looking at their feet while they argue. And they're certainly arguing. It's pretty much the world against my dad, though. Like, right now, Maggie's saying "We're not having him at the prison" at the same time that Glenn starts in with, "He had a gun to our heads!" And then Glenn, he gestures at me, which I really wish he hadn't done. "Look at her arm! The Governor tossed her across a room and Merle didn't lift a finger to stop him!"

I grimace, running my hands through my hair, and something inside of me makes me say what I say next even though my brain says no. "He didn't know the Governor was gonna have me brought there. And he tried to get him to leave me out of it."

Why am I defending him? Why, why, why? Glenn's looking at me with the same question on his face. "Sydney, the Governor threatened to kill you!"

"He did what?" my dad growls at the same time I snap, "Merle didn't know he was gonna do that!"

"Look, it doesn't even matter, it doesn't." Glenn turns back to my dad, who's lifting my sleeve and looking at my arm again. "Do you really want him sleeping in the same cell block as Carol? Beth?"

I look up. My collarbone doesn't like it. "Carol's dead."

Silence for a minute, and then my dad makes a sort-of laughing noise, letting go of my sleeve and rubbing his eyes. "Slipped my mind . . . No, babe, she ain't. I found her in a cell on one of the lower levels."

"And – and she's alright? She ain't bit or nothin'?"

"She's just fine."

It takes a second for his words to sink in. When a part of you breaks off, it can't just slip back into the same place easy as anything. But a feeling sort of like happiness but much more leaks into my chest and I stare down the road, a wide smile that feels weird on me but that I can't do anything about taking over my face. I never even bothered to hope for something like this because it was impossible, it was impossible . . . _Carol _. . .

The conversation doesn't stop for me. Good. Maybe they'll forget I'm here. "And no, I ain't got a problem with Merle bein' near any of 'em. He ain't a rapist."

"Well his buddy is!"

The picture of happy, alive Carol is pushed from my brain by the memory of a shirtless, crying Maggie, and I swallow and the more-than-happiness feeling turns heavier.

"They ain't buddies no more! Not after last night."

"There's no way Merle's gonna live there without puttin' everyone at each other's throats," says Rick.

"So you're gonna cut Merle loose and bring The Last Samurai home with us?" Dad means Michonne, who's slumped over on Silver, just out of earshot.

"She's not comin' back."

Maggie cuts in. "She's not in a state to be on her own."

"She did bring you guys to us," Glenn tiredly reminds Rick.

"And then ditched us."

I don't know about any of that. I rest my head against my bow. A walker would be nice right now. Taking down walkers is simple and easy and there's never any debate over it.

"At least let my dad stitch her up?" asks Maggie.

But Rick gives a little headshake. "She's too unpredictable."

"That's right," Dad agrees. "We don't know who she is . . . Merle, Merle's blood."

"No," says Glenn, whose eye is beyond black, whose chin is smeared with red, all thanks to my uncle. "Merle's _your _blood. My blood, my family, is standing right here. And waiting for us back at the prison."

"And you and Sydney are part of that family," Rick tells Dad.

I look from Rick, to my dad, to Merle in the woods. Actually, I look at Merle right when Rick points at him. "But _he's_ not. He's not."

"Man, y'all don't know," my dad says. Rick's stepped closer to Maggie and Glenn, so it's sort of like me and my dad are facing off against them. Which I don't like. At all. I want to go home and see Carol. And Carl. Everyone. Hell, I even want to see the baby. So whatever Dad's going to say to get Rick to let us bring Merle back to the prison with us, I wish he'd hurry up and say it so we can get going. But Dad, he takes his time. A few weighted seconds have passed when he finally talks again.

"Fine. We'll fend for ourselves."

I only thought I hurt my collarbone before. As my head snaps up this time, that bone screams, but I don't care. _"What?"_

"That's not what I was saying," Glenn tells Dad. And of course it wasn't, that's ridiculous, and Dad can't mean what I think he does –

But then: "Me and Merle and Sydney, we're a packaged deal."

The ground seems to drop from my feet but somehow I'm still standing, somehow, and that doesn't make any sense or maybe nothing makes sense and I say "Dad" but then don't know what else to say and Maggie's talking, Maggie.

"Daryl, you don't have to do that."

"It was always Merle and I before this." He has a hand on my shoulder and it feels like too much.

"Don't . . ." Maggie begins, or trails off, or whatever.

"You serious? You're just gonna leave like that?" Glenn doesn't seem to understand. No, that's me. Maybe that's both of us. I can't look away from my dad. Shouldn't I talk? I should talk.

"You'd do the same thing."

"Well, what do you want us to tell Carol?" Glenn challenges, and here is where my voice comes back, comes back fighting.

"And Carl?" I say, and my voice is too high-pitched, I sound too young.

Dad meets my eyes. "They'll understand."

I move away from him. His arm slips from me as I do. "No, they won't!" I won't. I don't.

Dad rubs a hand over his mouth, kneels down to me. I'm breathing too hard, and at some point I've started shaking my head in quick little motions that feel more like I'm trembling. Am I trembling? "Syd, you know I'd never do this if it wasn't the best thing for all of us –"

"It ain't!"

"Babe –"

Then there's Glenn. "So you're just gonna take her out into the woods with just the three of you? You really think _that's_ what's best for her?"

"Between me and Merle, she ain't ever gonna be safer!"

"Dad, no!" I say, using a tone I wouldn't dare use with him under any other circumstances. _"No."_

We eye each other for a while. Then he says, "This ain't a discussion. C'mon," and stands. "Say goodbye to your pop for me," he tells Maggie as he walks away from us, towards Silver.

And I feel dizzy. I feel like I'm falling and floating and twisting and turning every which way in the air, but I'm still here, on this road, and that makes it worse. I take three small steps after my dad, who Rick is already going after, and then I turn and head back to Maggie and Glenn, and I'm crying but not really, I think I'm doing that thing Maggie was doing when Merle had her at gunpoint, that dry sob sort of thing, and Maggie holds my face and her eyes are wet and she says all sort of soft, fast things that I guess should be comforting and Glenn's got one hand on her back and one hand on mine and my dad calls my name and I shake my head and Maggie tells me I need to go, it'll be okay, I need to go, and I end up over by Silver, and I guess my legs got me here, but I don't remember the trip, and the back of Silver is open, Rick's staring at my dad, his lips are pressed together, and Dad's taking out two bags, and one of them is my backpack from home. Home. Home.

"Dad." That's me, that's my voice being all hoarse, and I'm in front of Rick now. "No," my voice says, "No, we can't, please."

"Sydney –"

"_Please!"_

"Sydney . . ." Dad leans down to me. And what he says next he doesn't say mean but it still cuts like he did. "Don't make me drag you outta here. 'Cause I will."

I can't move for a very long time. Rick rubs my shoulder, I think, but I don't really feel too in tune with my body. Or anything. I'm aware of it when my dad holds out my backpack to me, and I'm aware of taking it, and I'm aware of adjusting my bow and arrows so I can fit the backpack on my shoulders, but I'm aware of it all in a distant way. I'm aware of looking back at Rick to see him watching me sadly with Carl's eyes. And I'm aware of turning to my dad again, telling him "I hate you" and him sighing. But it's all distant.

No. Rick's eyes that are Carl's eyes weren't distant. I felt those.

Into the woods, me first, my dad a few paces behind me. I reach Merle. I pass him. "Aw, what's the matter, Princess?" he calls after me as I walk towards somewhere. "Life not treatin' ya up to your usual standards?"

I stop, spin, look at him, shout, "Shut up, you _stupid asshole!"_

The smile drops from his face and he moves towards me with "What you just say to me?" and then Dad steps in front of him and shoves him back and points at me, then in a direction. "Not another word. Go." And so I do. Don't say another word, and not just because he told me not to. Apparently nothing I have to say matters, so why bother?

As I'm walking, I hear my uncle say something about an ass-whoopin', me being disrespectful and needing to be taught a lesson. And my dad tells him to leave me be. Which doesn't make up for anything. It doesn't. Nothing he can do will ever make up for this.


	17. Think What You Want

We keep to the forest for the whole morning. I walk ahead of Dad and Merle, who mutter back and forth with each other but don't bother trying to talk to silent me, except for when Dad says to turn a different direction. I keep my head low and mind but never say anything back. And then there's also the couple of times Dad calls me to them and makes me drink from his canteen. I don't say anything then, either. I'm not talking to Dad. I may never talk to him again. I may never talk again at all, because why should I?

The trees give pretty good shade, but it's still hot. Bugs bite me all over, and my hair sticks to my neck and on my arms because I don't have a ponytail holder. That's irritating, I guess, but everything like that, it's still distant in that strange way. The only things really close to me are my fury at Dad and Merle and the devastating hurt in my chest that doesn't let me forget for a second that I'll never see the prison again. Or anybody in it. These are the only things really here with me as I trudge through the forest, and all the rest of life is just background noise.

The sun's almost straight above us when a whistle comes from behind me and I look back to see Dad holding the canteen out. I obediently go back and don't look at him or Merle and take the canteen and lean against a tree and take a few gulps and give it back. I mean to go on ahead, but Dad and Merle haven't started moving again yet, they're talking – arguing – about the houses in this direction and the holler in that direction, and I slump against the tree and let 'em talk, because I couldn't care less. But then there's a hand on my chin and Dad's making me look up at him. He's frowning. "What's wrong?"

I shrug, shake my head.

"You're shakin'. Barely on your feet, pale –"

Hm. Yeah, my muscles don't seem to be holding up very well. Didn't notice. Dad presses his palm to my forehead. "Can't tell if you got a fever . . ." But then he remembers something, recognizes something, I see it flash across his face, but it doesn't make the worry go away. "When's the last time you ate?"

I shrug again.

"Sydney, answer me."

Fine. But I look at the ground and mumble as I do. "Yesterday mornin'."

"What, back at the prison?"

I nod. Dad takes his backpack off, glaring over his shoulder at Merle as he does. "What, you couldn'ta fed her?"

My uncle holds up his hand defensively. "Hey, man, she was in my apartment all day. Coulda made herself somethin' at anytime."

Dad's got the backpack on the ground and he's digging through it with fast hands. Finally he shoves it away disgustedly. "No food in this thing . . ." He stands, surveys the area, and says, "We should just rest here for a while. Good a place as any. Even got that stream a ways back. Get a fire started, we can boil some water . . ."

"It's barely noon. You wanna tuck ourselves in already?" says Merle.

"I said rest, not camp. I need to dig those splinters outta her arm anyway."

Just when I thought my day couldn't get any better.

Merle scowls, but then he eyes me and doesn't say anything about it anymore. I want to tell them both that I'm fine and that I could keep walking for as long as they want to, shaky or not, but that would mean talking, and I ain't doing that, so I'll just let them do whatever they want.

"You should go huntin'," says Dad. "You get somethin' soon, we can eat, rest . . . Still have a few hours 'fore nightfall we can use to move. Here." He takes the crossbow from his back, holds it out to Merle.

Merle takes it, but he says, "The only thing you've ever done better'n me is use this thing. Why don't you go huntin' and I'll stay here'n take care of Little Bit?"

And now I have to meet Dad's eyes, I just have to, because I need to tell him there's no way he can let that happen, he can't do that to me. But he's already shaking his head no, and I feel a tiny speck of gratitude inside of me before I remember that I'm mad at him and I have to swallow that gratitude down to nothing. "Nah," Dad's saying. "You go. Syd and I need to have a talk."

Well, he's wrong about that. Unless he's going to tell me we're heading back to the prison, there's nothing to talk about. And I know he's not going to do that.

"Mm, can't argue with ya there," Merle says, probably because he thinks Dad's going to chew me out for calling Merle an asshole, or something. But even if that's what happens, I won't care. Doesn't matter.

Merle takes Dad's gun from his belt and hands it back over. I don't have a gun. Or any knives. Thanks to Merle. "Keep an eye out, little brother," he says now, and then he heads off, though he pauses next to me to say, "Sydney Rose, if you straighten up by the time I get back, I might just give you a scrap of meat or two . . ."

I ignore him. He says _hmph _and walks on. I listen to his footsteps fade away behind me while Dad pulls out a tiny little bottle of what I guess is some sort of disinfectant from the backpack. He jerks his head at a row of big rocks nearby. I follow him over, sit down next to him, shrug off my backpack, and prop my bow up on a rock before letting Dad go at my arm with tweezers in a little pocket knife I didn't know he had. I do my best not to wince. Dad said he wanted to talk, but he's mostly quiet for the whole time it takes him to get the splinters out.

"Alright," he eventually says, ten painful minutes after we started. "This one's gonna be the worst, but it's the last one."

I nod. For two more minutes he slices at and burrows under my skin, and I grind my teeth but don't flinch, don't make a sound, and finally Dad flicks the tiny sliver away. "That's my tough girl."

I still say nothing and he sighs. He pours some of the disinfectant on a rag and wipes my arm down with it. "So how ya think this is gonna go, Syd?" he asks. "You keep on not talking to me, pretty soon I throw up my hands and take us back to the prison? Leave Merle behind?"

Of course I don't answer.

"I think you know better'n that." He stands, stuffs the rag in his back pocket, tosses the bottle back into the backpack, does a scan of the woods, and then crouches down in front of me. I try staring at the cut he got on his cheek sometime at Woodbury, but that's still too close to his eyes for me, so instead I watch a pebble between my boots.

"Baby girl . . . I know this sucks. And I'd change things for us if I could. But you heard Rick. He wasn't gonna let Merle into the prison, he was gonna leave him out here on his own. And I know enough about what happened at Woodbury to get why you're not feelin' too fond of your uncle right now – hell, I'm kinda pissed at him myself – but Little Bit, other'n me, nobody else in the world loves you more'n your uncle Merle."

And I can't hold my tongue now, no matter how much I might want to. "That ain't true."

He knows how I mean, I can see it, and he sighs again and looks out into the forest. I wait, but he doesn't say anything back, and something about that hits me hard and all of a sudden it's like a dam bursting and the words come flowing from me and I couldn't stop them if I tried with all my might.

"How could you tell me Carol's alive and then say I can't go see her? That I'll never see her again?"

"Sydney –"

"I'll never see any of them again! _Carl,_ Dad! I'll never see him again! He's gone! Carl's gone!"

"Babe, quiet down . . ."

I stand, though, and I don't quiet down, not at all, I get louder. "We left _everyone! Everything! _The motorcycle, and my picture of Mom!_ We left my picture of Mom!"_

Dad touches my face and I slap his hand off, whirl, move away. I don't want to be close to him, or see him, or talk to him, but of course he won't give me that.

"Hey! _Hey! _Don't walk away from me!" And for the first time today, at least as far as him talking to me goes, anger's in his voice. And so I have to stop. I hear him come up behind me and then he spins me around. "You think this is easy for me?" he hisses. "You think I like this? I didn't have a choice!"

"Yes, you did!"

"Damn it, Sydney, _stop yellin'."_

And so I bring my voice down, only because of the walkers, but I'm hissing, like him, all the energy I was putting into loudness now going into making sure each word cuts as deep as I can make it cut. "You _did _have a choice! Go to the prison or go with him, and you chose him! It was me that didn't have a choice! You didn't let me have a choice!"

"That's 'cause I'm your father –"

_"Well, you ain't a very good one!"_ And then I have to stop because I'm out of breath and gasping because I'm crying now. I sit on the ground right here, Indian-style, and cover my mouth and gulp down sobs. My dad stands over me. He doesn't move or say anything for a very long time. I don't want to see what his face looks like and so I don't check. I cry for a while. A long while. When the tears finally slow down and I can breathe okay again, and I'm bothering to wipe my face off, that's when Dad finally speaks. Very softly.

"You done?"

I nod, sniffling.

"You ain't changed my mind, Sydney."

I press my fists into my eyes.

"You ain't gonna change my mind. So you can keep actin' like this, but it ain't gonna do none of us any good. Least of all yourself. And sooner or later, I'ma have to stop lettin' you get away with cussin' at your uncle and talkin' back to me, so keep that in mind."

I want Carl. He'd understand this.

"But think what you want, Sydney Rose, go right ahead. Hate me, think I'm a shitty dad, whatever. But don't expect it to fix nothin'."

I just look at my hands, all clamped together, and think what I want.

"You need to cry some more?"

I shake my head.

"Fine." Dad moves back to the rocks, then to me, and now my bow's in my lap. "Then get up. We're goin' to get some water, then we're comin' back here and you're gonna take a nap. Don't tell me you don't need to."

So I wipe my nose and rise and don't tell him I don't need to but don't look at him, neither. All the way down to the stream and back, I don't look at him, don't talk to him. Can't. But that means I don't talk back, and Merle's not around to cuss at, so I don't get in trouble, at least. Dad _said_ I could keep acting like this, and so I'm going to. There's no other way to act. This isn't right, and I'm not going to pretend that it is. We get back to where we were before and as Dad starts a fire I use my backpack as a pillow and pretend to sleep. Only I don't pretend. I mean to just pretend, but sleep overcomes me and I'm woken up by the smell of cooking meat. Rabbit. Dad gives me a piece and I even thank Merle, which I soon regret because he makes a huge deal out of it, and I don't say anything else to him. To either of them. I live in my head and eat my first piece of meat and then my second piece of meat, slowly, because it's likely I might throw it back up like I do sometimes when I'm sad. But it all stays down. And then Dad picks up his bag and makes me let Merle carry mine and we walk for a few more hours, leaving the woods only once to cross a road, and there's a house at the corner of the road, like one we might have hunkered down in back before the prison. I make myself meet Dad's eyes and he shakes his head and we go into more woods. Right before nightfall we stop and Dad sets up a very small tent and I eat the last piece of meat because he makes me and then I go into the tent and curl around my backpack and my bow and even with my uncle and my dad talking outside I feel very, very alone. For a long time I drift in and out of sleep, and at one point when I'm in the drift-out part I hear my name and can't help but tune into the conversation outside.

"What'd you say to her today anyways? While I's huntin'?"

"Lotta things."

"You tell her if she ever swears at me again I'ma give her what-for?"

"Man, just shut up. That ain't your job."

"Well, someone's gotta do it. You know I love that little girl, Daryl, you know I do, but it's pretty clear to me she's sufferin' from a severe lacka discipline."

Silence.

"Oh, what, you think I'm wrong?"

"I think you ain't been around in a long time."

"Yeah, well, I been back around long enough . . . Look, little brother, the sooner you start treatin' her like this is all the new norm, the sooner she'll accept it. She'll start smilin' again, quit bein' that sour little thing in there."

The thump-crackle of a log hitting the fire. Then, "Wake me up in a few hours." The tent flap opens and my dad steps in and even after he lies down just a couple of feet away I'm still lonely deep down, where it counts.

I was wrong when I told Dad earlier today that I didn't need to cry anymore. Turns out I was just saving it for now. And when Dad hears, he reaches over to me and tries to rub my neck, starts to say something in his special gentle voice, and I roll away from him. He falls silent and doesn't reach for me again. I cry and cry and cry and then I sleep and dream of Carl somewhere in the prison corridors, alone like me, being attacked by walkers. No one has his back. And when I wake up and there's my dad, sitting next to me with his hand on my arm, I give in to a moment of weakness and pretend to fall back asleep right away so he doesn't know I know he's here, because then I'd have to pull away and the idea of being alone for another second is terrifying and cold.


	18. Yellow Jacket Creek

Three hours of sleep under my belt, nothing for breakfast or lunch, a swollen arm, an aching collarbone, and Merle pissing on a tree behind me. Really, what more can I ask for?

"Man, there ain't nothin' out here but skeeters 'n ants." My dad's leaning on the tree I'm sitting next to.

"Patience, little brother. Sooner or later, a squirrel's bound to scurry 'cross your path."

"Even so, that ain't much food." I feel his eyes on me and pretend not to.

"More'n nothin'."

Speaking of ants, there's a small group of them crawling on my boot. Probably making their way up my leg. Oh, well. I watch as they move across the leather and wonder if they ever fight with each other.

"Have better luck goin' to one of them houses we passed back on the turnoff," Dad says.

"Is that what your new friends taught ya? Hm? How to loot for booty?"

_New friends. _As if that even begins to cover it. Carl felt like the oldest friend I ever had . . . I hear Merle's zipper and then him stepping up behind us.

"Man, we been out here for hours," says Dad, and he's right. It's mid-afternoon, we were up early in the morning, same as we always used to be. And this is probably the single most unsuccessful hunt I've ever been on.

Dad's nudging me with his foot. "You be okay with findin' a stream, tryin' our luck with some fish?"

Merle's in my line of vision now, grinning. "Oh, that's right. Little Bit gets all squeamish 'bout the worms."

"That ain't it," I say, but I don't offer him any more of an explanation, because he's heard it all before and it won't make a difference to tell it to him again. And the last person I talked to about my dislike of fishing was much more understanding and kind and I don't want to think about him because he's dead. I just turn back to the ants on my boot and mumble, "I'm okay with it."

"Well, thank you for your permission, darlin'," says Merle. He eyes my dad. "And I think _you're_ just tryin' to lead me back to the road, man. Get me over to that prison."

That doesn't make any sense. My dad told me just yesterday that we weren't going back. But now, now Dad says, "Syd and me left some things we gotta go get."

I look up at him. He gives me a barely-there half-smile that's sort of sad but not totally and for just a very tiny second things are almost good. And that's what pushes my mouth into moving, into telling Merle in a voice that sounds brighter than I wanted it to be, "And we could talk to Rick again. See if he's changed his mind 'bout you."

"You ain't changed your mind 'bout me, you 'spect him to?"

Well. Can't really argue with him there. But Dad, Dad's saying, "Shelter. Food. Pot to piss in . . . Might not be such a bad idea."

"Yeah, for you two, maybe. Ain't gonna be no damn party for me."

Dad raises his crossbow, checks the sights. "Everyone'll get used to each other."

"They're all dead. Makes no difference."

My legs go rigid. Some ants actually fall from my boot.

"How can you be so sure?" Dad asks coolly, and I feel his fingertips graze the top of my head.

"Right about now, he's probably hostin' a housewarmin' party. Where he's gonna bury what's lefta your pals."

I find my footing and walk away. Fast. Before I say something that'll get me in deep trouble. Because I want to say a lot and every last bit of it would get me into deep trouble. I hear Dad call my name and then I hear him using that same hissing voice he used with me yesterday, but this time it's for Merle, and Merle says something back, too loud, and I plug my ears like I'm not supposed to and walk for a while, searching for someplace to sit, but instead I find a walker. Used to be a man, young enough to have been in college. It's just chilling out behind a tree when it sees me, bares its teeth, and comes forward right into an arrow. It falls down, I go to it, I take my arrow out, and then I kick the body as hard as I can five times. One kick for Merle. A second for Merle. Two for the Governor. Another one for Merle. When I look up, Dad's here, watching me. I don't like the expression on his face.

"What?" I snap, and I force my face to go soft to make up for it. Dad studies the walker, then me again, and then he sighs. He's been sighing a lot these past couple of days. Mostly when he's talking to me.

"You okay?" he asks.

"No," the honest answer slips out before I can rethink it.

"Syd –"

"I don't wanna talk about it." And I don't. I don't want to talk about the evidence for our group being dead or not being dead and I sure as hell don't want to listen to Dad defend Merle. I slide my arrow back into my quiver without bothering to clean it. "Please? Can we just go fishin'?"

It takes him a second to nod, but an answer's an answer. He and I walk back to Merle and I look at my uncle just to show him that he didn't make me cry, and then I get on with ignoring him.

An hour later, Dad and Merle are arguing again, this time because Merle thinks the creek we've just started hearing is the Sawhatchee and Dad thinks it's the Yellow Jacket, and that's when I hear something totally different, something very out of place, and for just a second I have this image of Carl and Rick and everyone, Little Asskicker included, showing up here to take us home, but of course that's stupid.

I know what I'm hearing, though, and I've frozen up. "Dad?" But Merle's telling him not to get his panties in a bundle so I have to repeat myself. "Dad!"

"What is it?"

"You hear that?"

And there it is again, the kind of high-pitched wail I've come to know. Far away but not that far. Dad meets my eyes. He hears it, too.

It's Merle who answers me, though. "Aw, Sydney, that's just wild animals gettin' wild." He nods at Dad. "Ain't you talked to her 'bout the birds 'n the bees yet?"

"That's a baby," I say, completely sure now.

"Huh-uh, Little Bit. See, when a mama coon and a daddy coon love each other very much –"

I don't hear the rest because I'm racing towards the river. I come down to the shore, nearly slip in the mud, but Dad's here with me and he catches my arm. To our right, a high concrete bridge stretches over the water, and on top of the bridge are some cars, at least one man – shouting in Spanish – standing on the back of a loading truck right on the bridge's edge, at least one woman screaming somewhere, at least one baby crying, at least one gun going off, and a lot more than one walker trying to get a meal.

Merle's beside us now. He whistles one of his loud, ear-hurting whistles. "Hey! Jump!" And then he laughs, and I don't even know what to do with that.

Dad touches my arm. He's already moving by the time he does. "Sydney –"

"Yeah –" And now I'm running after him through the woods, hoping he knows where he's going, and of course he does, because he's my dad. Merle calls after us but neither of us pay him any mind. Which is cool.

Up a hill, closer to the noise. I jump over branches and plants that try to snag my ankle, and I'm good at it, thanks to lots of weekends spent on hunting trips a lot more fun than this one has been. Dad's faster than me, of course, but I'm not that far behind him, not that far at all. And then the woods clear out ahead of us and my feet are off the soil and pounding on concrete. I see two men on the back of the loading truck now, and one of them has his leg caught in a walker's arms, and that's the one my dad shoots first.

The bridge is packed with cars and walkers. Only the loading truck and this one red van-thing actually have walkers going after them. I move up next to my dad as he shrugs his backpack off, and I do the same with mine, and Dad shoots another walker and gets the arrow back and uses it stab a third one in the head. But there are a lot more. I shoot one to my right and catch a glimpse of Merle walking up the bridge after us, taking his sweet time, but then I lose him and focus on the fight, on the walker in front of me, who dies now.

"C'mon man, we're tryin' to help you out!" Dad yells, I guess to one of the Spanish-speaking guys. "How 'bout some cover?" And I glance over to see a man jump from the loading truck, into a pile of garbage, and come up with a gun.

"Syd, watch your back!" Dad shouts, but Carl's –

Not here. I whirl in time to release an arrow into a walker that was too close for comfort. By a lot. Damn. Focus. Focus. The truck's pretty much clear now. Dad just shot a walker dead on the hood of the van. I can see the shape of a person inside, a screaming woman, and, yes, that's where the baby's crying is coming from, too. I take out a walker with its face pressed against the window. Disgusting thing. I run past Dad as he uses his crossbow to smash the skull of another one into another window, and I round the van to the back, which is open and has a walker halfway into it, reaching its arms into the front seat. I have my bow loaded and I start to aim it, but no, that's stupid, the baby and the woman are right there, but then my dad's in front of me and saying _back up_ and he's yanking the thing out and I turn and put down something else while he crushes that walker's head in the hatchback door. I shoot two more arrows, scramble to get 'em both back because I'm out, and by that time Merle's finally stepped in and shot a walker and my dad . . . my dad's just been a freaking badass. I shoot one more walker, Dad stabs another and kicks it from the bridge, and then it's quiet. Quieter, at least. More walkers are heading over here, but they're all the way on the other end of the bridge.

I move over to the red van, lean on a part that isn't totally soaked in blood. Dad touches my shoulder, looks me over, and I nod at him and he nods back and we're both okay. The baby's still crying. So's the woman, I think.

A door opens on the other side of where my dad and me are on the van, and then there's yelling in Spanish and a gun cocks, and Merle is standing next to the open back door with a gun pointed over the window at one of the men, the older one, probably the father. And Merle tells him to slow down and that that ain't no way to say thank you and the man says something I can't understand but that sounds disbelieving and desperate and I'm remembering that I have very little energy and I lean against the car and close my eyes.

"Let him go," Dad says from my side. But that's all he does. And of course Merle doesn't listen.

"Least they can do is give us an enchilada or somethin' . . ."

_Is this how it's going to be_? That's the question I hope I'm asking when I force my eyes open and I look at my dad as Merle begins to dig through the backseat. _Is this how life's going to be for us from now on? _

Dad's jaw moves, his gaze on mine. Then he circles the car, over to Merle, and what happens next is something I immediately know I'll never, ever forget.

Dad lifts his crossbow and points it at my uncle's back. "Get out of the car."

I move around the hood to get a better view, because I must be mistaken. But no. There's my uncle, there's my dad, there's the crossbow.

"I know you're not talkin' to _me_, brother . . ." says Merle in a way that says he knows damn well Dad's talking to him.

Dad looks over at the man Merle just had a gun to. "Get in your car and get the hell outta here! _Go! Get in your car!" _And the man and his son jump and run, run past me and into the van, and I step out of its path as Merle straightens up and stares my dad down over the crossbow. The van backs up, backs away, out of our lives, and for a second I'm nervous something more is about to happen with Dad and Merle and that crossbow but then Dad lowers it and stalks off, grabbing his backpack and my shoulder along on the way, and as he leads me on I barely have time to gather up my arrows and my own backpack.

But that was _awesome_.

Wasn't it? Part of me thinks it was. Dad flat-out standing up to Merle, for the first time I can remember. But then another part of me notices the way my dad's face is set, and – as a glance behind me shows – how my uncle looks completely, totally pissed off. And that worries me. And I know this isn't something we're going to walk away from.

As we step off the bridge, my eye catches on a blue sign planted to the side. _Yellow Jacket Creek_, it reads.


	19. Scars

"The shit you doin' pointin' that thing at me?" That's the first thing Merle says when he catches up to Dad and me a minute later, when we've gotten nice and deep into the shady forest. Dad doesn't turn around, doesn't stop walking.

"They were scared, man," is all he says.

"They were _rude_, is what they were. Rude and they owed us a token of gratitude!"

"Aw, they didn't owe us nothin'." Dad's talking in a way I don't like. Not scary, but low, almost tired. And I wish Merle wouldn't keep on about it, but I know he will. And he does.

"Yeah, you helpin' people out outta the goodness of your heart? Even though you might die doin' it? Is that somethin' your Sheriff Rick taught ya?"

We've reached a tiny patch of a clearing, and I'm not sure if that's the reason Dad stops and faces Merle or if Dad's just had enough. His tone suggests that last reason. "There was a baby!" As he says this, he takes my arm and pulls me behind him, which doesn't mean anything good.

"Oh, otherwise, you woulda just left 'em to the biters, then . . . ?"

And then, then Dad says something that I don't understand how it connects to any of this. "Man, I went back for ya! You weren't there! I didn't cut off your hand, neither!"

I take a step back, mouth open a bit, because I have never, ever heard my Dad talk like this to Merle. And I don't think he's even acknowledged the missing hand.

"_You _did that!" Dad snaps. "Way before they locked you up on that roof! You asked for it!"

Merle bends his head down, laughing, laughing not in a good way. Really, Merle never laughs in a good way, does he? Not anymore. He takes a few steps over and my dad circles, too, so they're still face to face, but I don't like it because I'm not behind Dad now. I start to move after him, but then Merle talks and I lose my train of thought somewhere in his words. "Y'know – y'know what's funny to me?" He holds up two fingers all crossed together. "You and Sheriff Rick're like _this _now. Right? Hm? I betcha a penny and a fiddle of gold that you never told him that we were plannin' on robbin' that camp blind."

Understanding rolls through me and my tongue goes dry, and I barely notice – but I _do _notice – when Dad's eyes flicker over to mine. "It didn't happen."

"Yeah, it didn't. 'Cause I wasn't there to help you!"

"What, like when we were kids? Huh? _Who left who then?"_

I've never heard anything about that, but –

"_What? Huh?" _Merle roars, loud as can be, walkers be damned. _"Is that why I lost my hand?"_

"You lost your hand 'cause you're a simple-minded piece of shit, that's why!" And then my dad steps off, and Merle yells _Yeah?, _and he grabs at my dad and Dad loses his balance and falls and Merle's saying _You don't know! _and there's a ripping sound and the back of Dad's shirt is gone and I see his tattoo and I see the scars from when he fell out of a tree as a kid, and I step closer to do something, _something _to Merle, and then I realize that Merle's not going after Dad anymore, he doesn't even look mean anymore, he's just standing and staring down at Dad, and something's wrong, something's wrong, and I look back at Dad's back and a place in my chest tightens all up.

It's been a long time since I saw the scars. Years, actually. I was just a little kid when Dad told me the tree story, and so I believed it and I've always believed it, but now . . . Those scars, those scars aren't nearly . . . _random_ enough. And there are too many of them. My dad didn't get those from any fall from any tree, he couldn't have, no matter how bad. Dad, Dad's swinging the backpack up, back on his bare back, and the scars are gone again, and I'm thinking that maybe I'm just being silly, of course I'm just being silly, when Merle starts talking. Very differently now.

"I – I didn't know he was –"

"Yeah, you did," says my dad, and his voice is all wrong, wrong, wrong. "He did the same to you. That's why you left first." He stands up. "Sydney." And I go to him and he brushes his fingers down my arm without looking at me and then he's walking off and I'm right next to him, everything about me feeling like it's fallen asleep, and I have to blink a lot, and my heart's going weird –

"I had to, man," says Merle to our backs. "I woulda killed him otherwise."

And I get it. I get it. I get who _him _is and I get why they're both so clear over something I would never have understood otherwise, not in a million years. Dad keeps moving forward. He has a hand on the back of my neck now, not rubbing, just staying there. Holding onto me.

"Where you goin'?" Merle calls.

Dad stops, I stop too, and Dad says, "Back where we belong." He's still talking wrong, though. I don't like it. My dad's voice is supposed to be low and strong and tough, and it's not right now, and I hate it, it hurts, and – and those scars – and I step in front of my dad and lean my forehead on his stomach and take fistfuls of his shirt and turn my head away from my uncle.

"I can't go with ya!" The fire's gone out of Merle. Good. "I tried to – I tried to kill that black bitch! Damn near killed the Chinese kid . . ."

And now my head whips back around. "He's Korean!" I snap. At the same time as my dad.

"Whatever! It doesn't matter . . . I just can't go with ya!"

Nothing's right today. Nothing. Because Merle's voice is wrong, too, and I just want this to stop, and the only good thing, the only normal thing, is my dad's arm settling over my shoulders, and I press my forehead into him and pretend I'm not here.

"Y'know, I may be the one walkin' away," Dad says, "but you're the one that's leavin'. _Again. _C'mon, Sydney." And he guides me forward, and I stay right next to him, keep a hand on him, because that's the only way I feel steady at all.

When Merle shows up behind us about five minutes later, he doesn't acknowledge Dad and me and we don't acknowledge him. In fact, he stays a good ways behind us. I don't give a damn. I don't give a damn about whatever he does. He can come back to the prison or he can stay out here. _I don't give a damn about him._

It's when we run into a small stream and Dad crouches down to it to splash some water on his face that my voice comes back to me. My voice is wrong, too.

"You never told me."

I'm not sure he's heard me at first. I stand there, looking over the edges of the backpack and at one of the scars and feeling sick, and Dad lets water run over his hands for a few long seconds, and I'm worrying that I don't have it in me to repeat myself when Dad says, "'Bout robbin' the camp?"

And he knows that's not what I mean. Merle reaches the stream, too, fifteen yards down from us, and he doesn't cast a look our way as he reaches into the water. Dad watches him, rubs his jaw. I swallow. I choke it out, I choke out, "'Bout – 'bout your dad – "

And he must hear the tears creeping into my voice, he always can, and he holds his arm out to me. "Shh, shh, hey . . ." I go to him and bury my face into his neck where it's safe. "Hey. C'mon, baby girl, we don't need to worry 'bout this now . . ."

Yes, yes we do. I do. But he doesn't want that, so I tighten my throat and order myself not to cry, not a bit. Dad, he squeezes me and says, "Hey. Hey. We're goin' back to the prison. Nothin' to be sad about. We're goin' back, just like you wanted."

And that's true, that's true. But right now, even though I know he's right and that's exactly what I've wanted all along, going back just feels like a tiny little light in huge dark cave. Dad and me, we have so much to talk about. But he splashes some water on my face then and somehow, somehow makes me smile, so the light gets a little bigger, I guess.

But just a little.

We need to go home.


	20. Reunion

We're almost to the prison and my heart is pounding in anticipation when we hear the gunshots and my heart pounds faster, for a whole different reason.

And there's no conversation about it. No debate. No point in that. Dad and I just start running, running as fast as we can, until we break out of the woods and there it is, our prison. Under attack. More specifically, there's Rick, pinned to a fence by two walkers with more on their way. But Dad got here before me and so by the time I've taken the scene in he's put an arrow through one walker's head, and now Merle's charging past me and he gets another walker, and the two ones shuffling their way up from the right are mine, mine and my bow's. In a matter of seconds they're down, and I nock a new arrow and turn, but between Rick and Merle and Dad, all the other walkers close by are already down – Rick's smashing in the head of the last one now – and for the slightest second I find myself thinking how it's funny that things so easy to kill have managed to take over our world so completely, but then that's swept from my mind because _the prison is under attack _and I wrap my fingers through the fence and look, I look, but there's nothing going on in there, not anymore. We've gotten here at the tail end of it. I see our truck driving through the top gate, the one leading into the courtyard. I see people up there, and I can't quite tell who, but I see that one of them is wearing a cowboy hat and there's only one person that can be, and he's safe, he must be safe. And I don't see an enemy anywhere. Was there even an attack or – ?

I realize that there's something off before I realize what that something is. But then I see. And I grip the fencing so hard it cuts into my skin.

There are walkers in the field. In _our _field. The field we worked so hard to clear out, where our dead are buried. In the middle of the field, there's a strange white-and-orange van of some sort – the words _cube van_ come to mind – and there are _walkers in our field_. The main gate's . . . gone. What, rammed through? Isn't that the only thing that makes sense?

_The bastards let walkers in here._

Getting back to the courtyard, to the prison, isn't that hard. We get to the main gate, all four of us, because Rick hasn't said anything about Merle, at least not yet. Then we move in, put down a few walkers, and Glenn drives the truck down to meet us and we pile into it. Up the road, into the courtyard. Carl closes that gate behind us. Carl.

When I jump out of the truck, the first thing I notice is the body. There's a body lying in the middle of the courtyard, and I'm terrified, but then I take in the shaggy blonde hair, the prison suit, and I'm just sad. Axel.

It's kind of hard to enjoy a reunion when you've just been attacked, when there's a human corpse lying nearby. But I see Carol, who _I thought was dead_, and the kind of emotion I'm not good with comes up inside of me and I throw my arms around her waist and she cries and I do my best not to. When we finally let go, she moves to my dad. He puts a hand on her shoulder. I don't see what happens next because then Carl's in front of me, panting, staring at me with a strange look in his eyes.

I stand. I move to him. I mean to say _I leave you alone for a couple of days . . . ? _but when I open my mouth all that comes out is a frantic sort of gasp. Then I throw one arm around his neck and the other around his back. His wrap around me so tight it hurts. I'm sort of aware of his hat falling to the ground but not really, I'm mostly just aware of him and me, the way my head fits perfectly into the nook between his shoulder and his neck, how his face is in my hair, and how we're closer, physically closer, than we've ever been, but it's still not close enough for me.

Carl.

I knew I missed him. I didn't know I missed him this much. And I thought he was gone forever and now he's here, in my arms. And when we finally separate, I hold his head between my hands and we look into each other's eyes and then something very strange passes between us and I let him go. But I stay by his side. I don't want to leave his side again. Partners aren't supposed to do that.


	21. Settled

Glenn's comprehended that Merle's here. At least, I assume that's what the yelling means. Oh, yeah, now Michonne's yelling too. Just like old times. Carl and me, we go inside, passing poor Axel's body on the way. I take a deep breath inside the dining room, and it doesn't necessarily smell good, but I still can't get enough of the scent of it, of our prison. I find a can of peaches and two forks. We climb that staircase in the dining room up to the little glass room, and it's not much. Carl says it was the warden's office. I slip through it and onto the balcony. I like seeing the dining room from up here. Carl and me, we sit by the window, each of us on a side, and I open the can of peaches and he tells me what happened.

The first shot fired was the one that killed Axel. Carol was next to him at the time and she had to spend a good portion of the attack using his body as a shield. Rick was out by the stream that runs close by, on top of the wooden bridge. Hershel was by the fence on the inside because he'd just been talking to Rick. Bullets flew their way and they both got down. Carl and Beth were outside at the time, too, out in the courtyard, not far from Axel and Carol. They took cover and started shooting back at one of the Governor's shooters, who'd gotten up into one of the towers on the edge of the fence. Maggie'd been inside, feeding the baby. She came out with some rifles and covered for Carol long enough for her to take cover.

Right about then was when the van showed up. The van carrying the walkers. It busted through the gate and let them all out. And for some reason that pisses me off more than any other part of the story.

"Dicks."

Carl just nods, swallows a mouthful of peaches, and goes on.

The driver of the van got out and escaped the field. Maggie eventually took out the tower shooter. Almost right after, the Governor got back in his truck with the two people who'd been there with them, a black guy and a white woman with dark hair. Carl said there was another shooter somewhere in the woods but he never got a good look at him. Glenn had been gone on a run – or something, Carl's not sure where he was, actually – and he got back right then in our truck. The four in the courtyard came out and shot what they could in the field, and Michonne appeared from somewhere out there, maybe from behind the tipped-over prison bus near the gate. Glenn got Hershel and Michonne and brought them up to the courtyard and that's when me and Dad and Merle showed up.

The others have gotten in here by now, into the cell block. Some of them. My dad and Merle and Rick and Glenn must still be outside. Michonne, too. Does she count? Is she hanging around? Carl doesn't know.

We've finished up the peaches. For a few minutes, we sit in silence, looking out the window at the walkers in our field.

And now I begin to tell him about Woodbury. I start with seeing my uncle again, being kidnapped. I tell him about the Governor and I show him my arm. I tell him about the town meeting, about the fight that was supposed to be to the death, about the walkers on poles. I tell him about our escape and then my story stops. And he calls me out on it, like he calls me out on everything.

"You gonna tell me what happened out there? With your dad and Merle?"

"Uh . . . Shit, mostly."

He laughs a little, but not much. "That's okay. You don't have to talk about it."

Which is a lot different from what he said the last time I didn't want to talk about something personal. And for some reason that makes me feel the need to explain. "It's just . . . most of it's not my story to tell." I think of the scars on my dad's back, the look on Merle's face when he saw them. "We walked around and we hunted. We got into a fight with some walkers on a bridge. And my dad and Merle . . . There's just . . . a lotta bad blood between 'em. More'n I realized."

"But your dad still wanted to go with him?"

"He was just tryin' to do what was right," I say, and almost laugh myself because of how different that is from what I would've told Carl yesterday. I still don't even understand it, really, all that's happened, my dad's choices. I need to talk to him. About a lot. But right now, here with Carl, I feel settled inside for the first time in days and I just want to enjoy that.

Except . . . I have one thing I have to do.

The light from the window is darkening when I stand and offer him my hand. "C'mon. I need your help with somethin'."

We go down the stairs, into the cell block. Beth's up at the top of the stairs in here, holding the baby. We go up to her, she sets Little Asskicker down in her crate, and before I know what's happening she's hugging me close, Beth is. "I'm so glad you're okay," she says, and I know I don't imagine her voice cracking and I hug her right back. She lets go, smiles, walks downstairs, and when she's a safe distance away I sigh and look over at Carl, who's smirking. And expectant.

"Alright, fine," I say grouchily. "She's not a bitch."

And he grins.

I nod at the baby, who's gurgling and watching the ceiling with her tiny dark eyes. "How do I hold her?"

"What?"

"How do I hold her?"

"Judith?"

"You named her Judith?"

He nods, and for a second I'm hurt that he never asked my opinion on the name, but then I remember that he probably never expected to see me again. "Alright. How do I hold Judith?"

Carl reaches down and takes her up. He looks so at home with her, and Carl's not really a naturally gentle person, but with Judith, he's much more tender than I think I know how to be. But I listen as he hands her over, tells me where to put my arms, how to support her head. And suddenly I'm holding a baby. A little pink bundle of a baby.

"Sway back and forth," Carl tells me, but I keep on standing stock still.

"I can't, I'll drop her."

"You won't drop her."

"One step at a time, man."

He watches me for a minute. Then, "What changed your mind?"

I look down at her. My God, she's tiny. Her eyelids are half-closed. I don't think she minds me being so still. Probably gets sick of rocking so much. "She's not goin' anywhere. I'm not goin' anywhere." I sigh. "And . . . she's family. Like you." I don't look at him when I say that. But I look up at him when I say the next part. The part that I really, really need to say, and should probably say fast if I don't want to cry.

"We were holed up at my mom's house."

It takes a second for him to see where I'm going with this. "Sydney, it's okay, you don't have to –"

"Just listen."

And he does.

"Me 'n my mom, my dad and my uncle. Mom and Dad had gone over to my Nana and Papaw's house early on . . . They were dead. By the third day at Mom's, Dad was saying we needed to move, get to one of the refugee centers, because the walkers were gettin' thicker and thicker."

I've started to sway. Look how far I've come.

"Mom didn't wanna go. They were fightin' a lot by then, my parents. I mean, they always fought, but it was gettin' worse. That night, Mom left the house alone. Didn't tell nobody. She said later that she'd gone to check on a friend, this guy she'd dated a few times . . . I think she really went lookin' for alcohol. Our liquor cabinet was empty, and she'd been drinking a lot 'fore the outbreak . . ."

Judith's fallen asleep in my stiff arms.

"She came back, she's bit," I whisper. "And that was that."

Slowly, slowly, I lower the baby back into her crate, her small, safe crate. Then I look her big brother straight in the eye. "I wanted you to know."

His hand finds mine. He doesn't tell me he's sorry because he knows I don't like it. But his grip, his face, it all says enough. And I squeeze his hand back.

. . . . .

That night, after I've technically gone to bed, I hold Mom's picture in my hands for a long time. Only it's not just Mom's picture, is it? And after a few minutes of looking only at her, getting to know – again – each detail of her face, I let my eyes slip to the man she's in the arms of. And I look at him for a while. Then I put the picture back in its place, turn off my flashlight, and leave my cell. I try to get to the staircase as quickly as possible so _he _won't see me. But he does.

"Hey, Little Bit."

I let out a breath, my foot already on the first stair, and turn slowly around, scowling. And there's my uncle, locked in the dining room. He's stepping up from the shadows, slipping his arms through the bars. "C'mere for a sec."

I stay where I am.

"Please?" Merle whispers. And it's not a nice please. But I go anyway, mostly because I don't want to cause any extra trouble, and so he'll stop loud-whispering across our cell block before he wakes everyone up.

"What is it?" I ask when I'm closer, stopping just out of his arms' reach.

"Think you and me should have a little talk."

"'Bout what?"

"'Bout a lotta things."

A lot of things . . . Like pointing a gun at Maggie? Kidnapping me? Beating Glenn to a pulp? Letting the Governor get his hands on me? Oh, and then there's the newest addition to the list – letting _that _happen to my dad. And that new addition, I think it's the main reason my hands now turn into fists.

"I don't wanna talk to you." And I spin and walk away.

"Hey, now. C'mon darlin', I'm just tryin' to work out our little problems."

"Ain't none of our problems little." I reach the staircase, look back at him one more time. "And most of 'em probably can't be worked out. So g'night." And I bound up the stairs and he doesn't say another word.

Carol and Lori's cell is dark. It's just Carol's cell now, I guess. I don't want to think about that. I walk across the balcony, all the way to the end, where the last cell is lit up by a flashlight. I move in the doorway and Dad's sitting on the bed, cleaning his gun. "Ain't you ever asleep when you're s'posed to be?" he says when he sees me. Then he must take in the look on my face, because he sets the gun and rag on the floor. "What is it, Syd?"

In answer, I go to him, sit, wrap my arms around him, and – and this wasn't part of the plan – break down.

"Aw, baby girl . . ."

I was supposed to be more controlled, more grownup than this, but I guess that's out the window now, so here we go, here we go, things start to spill out.

"How could he do that to you?" is the first thing I wail, as softly as I can, into his shirt. "He was your dad! Dads aren't supposed to – they don't –"

"Darlin', it was a long time ago . . ."

"I don't care! He – he –" And I hate him, my faceless grandfather. I hate him more than I've ever hated anyone, _anyone, _the Governor included. Dad holds me and says _shh, shh, _but I'm not even close to done.

"I've been such a brat . . ." And I have been. Because I don't even have scars on my back. I thought I had it so bad, but I don't even have scars on my back. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Sweetheart, it's okay, it's okay. I shouldn'ta drug you off like that. That was my fault."

"But you were, you were just, you were just doin' what you thought was best, and I – I'm so sorry I said I hate you, I don't hate you, and – and you're not a shitty dad, neither, you're the best dad –"

"Sydney, stop cryin'." He kisses my head. "Shh, shh. Stop cryin'."

"I'm such a _brat_ . . ."

"No, you ain't. Hush."

It takes a few minutes, but I calm down. Dad keeps stroking my hair even after I'm close to normal, and I have to say it another time, because I'm so afraid he won't believe me. "I'm sorry . . ."

"I know that, baby girl."

"I shouldn'ta said I –"

"No, no, don't you go into that again, missy . . . You threw one fit. Most kids throw a dozen a day for reasons that ain't nearly as good as the ones you had."

"That don't make it okay."

"No, it don't, but unless you're plannin' on doin' it again, I don't see us havin' a problem."

"I don't hate you, I love you . . ."

"Little Bit, I know that . . ." Dad wipes my face off. "Good Lord, Sydney, you really think I took any of that seriously? You're eleven, I don't take nothin' you say seriously." He tickles me in the stomach to show me he's joking, and I'm ticklish and so I can't help but giggle, even with my eyes still all swollen up. "And I love you, too, for all you're a drama queen."

I swipe my hand over my eyes. "I ain't a drama queen."

"There ya go. Now you sound more like my girl."

But I have a question, still. And I look right at Dad to ask it, but I'm careful to swallow first so my voice doesn't tremble anymore. Not so much, anyway.

"Why'd he do it?"

"My old man?"

I nod.

It takes him a while to answer. When he does, it's matter-of-fact. "That's a good question."

And I have to lean into him again.


	22. The Innocent and the Guilty

"You actually said that?" I'm looking at Carl, who's sitting on the filthy floor of my cell across from me on the bed. He has his hat on his knees, playing with one of the tassels.

"He's no good to anyone like this."

He means Rick. This morning, after arguing over whether or not we should leave the prison – the safest, homiest place we've been since the farm – Hershel ended up yelling at Rick. Like, full-on, right in the middle of the cell block where everyone could hear. Hershel told Rick he was slipping. That he needed to get his head clear. And _do something._ And then Rick went off and Carl went after him, to talk. And now I'm hearing it all second-hand.

Carl . . . Carl told his dad he should step down. Let _my_ dad and Hershel take care of things for a while. And I can't quite wrap my head around it. But if what Carl's told me is true, Rick's been hallucinating, running around outside, acting totally out of sorts, and he probably doesn't need any extra stress on him right now. And he probably doesn't need to have all of our lives in his hands.

"You think he's gonna do it?"

"I don't know," Carl says, running a finger along the brim of his hat. His dad's hat.

Me, I play with my release. "You okay?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

My lips press together, tight, all thin-line, and I wait for him to look up, but he doesn't.

So finally I sigh and stand. "I can't do this."

"What?"

_I can't deal with you not wanting to talk. _"I can't stay in this prison the whole damn day. Or longer." I start pacing the length of the cell, which isn't much. We can't go outside, none of us, not after yesterday. We have a few places set up – fortified – in case of shootouts. The catwalk, the cage things around some of the doors. But we're not even supposed to go out to those except to keep watch. And I don't do well trapped indoors for a long time. So . . . "I'm gonna go keep watch."

"Maggie's out there."

"Well, I'll help her out. You comin'?"

He shakes his head. He's lying to me, he's not okay, and I hate that, but I have no idea how to fix it right now. And . . . he'll talk to me eventually. He always does. That thought calms me a little, and so I head outside, to Maggie. I find her in one of the lookouts, kneeling next to a long line of wood pallets leaned up against the cage fencing, her rifle propped through the fence, ready to go. When I close the door behind me, she gives me a little smile. "Hey. Need somethin'?"

"No. Just can't stay inside anymore. Can I help you keep watch?"

In answer, she unloops the binoculars from her neck and hands them over.

We sit for a while, me scoping the woods for anything strange. There's nothing strange, though, just dead people walking around. And my mind starts to go different places, like it does sometimes, and before long it goes to a place involving Maggie. And Glenn. And Merle. And I try to avoid that place, I do, but I keep coming back to it and it hits me hard each time, and finally, finally I have to give in, I have to. "Hey, Maggie? I'm . . . I'm sorry about my uncle. What he did."

I don't look away from the binoculars – they're too good at hiding my face – but I hear, "It wasn't your fault."

"But I shoulda known better. I trusted him right off the bat, even though you and Glenn told me not to. And I'm sorry."

For someone who hates being told _I'm sorry_, I'm sure saying it a lot myself lately.

"Hey." Maggie's hand is on my shoulder, and I pull the binoculars down, and her eyes are kind. "Glenn and I don't blame you for any of that. He's your family and you'd thought he was dead."

"It'd been better if he was," I murmur, tightening my fingers around my bow until they're white. "If he was dead, we never woulda gone to Woodbury. Glenn wouldn'ta got beaten up, I wouldn'ta got thrown across the room, and you –"

Her eyes, her kind eyes, they drop.

"Sorry," I say again, blushing. I'm not good at these kinds of things, not at all, I talk myself right into a hole . . .

Now Maggie's saying, "No one knows about . . . that, except for you and Glenn. And Merle. I need you to –"

"I won't tell anyone," I say. "Of course not."

She tries another smile, but it's too stiff.

And damn it. I look through the binoculars again, but as I scan the woods my mouth moves. "You and Glenn . . ." I trail off, because I'm pretty sure she'll know what I mean. How she and Glenn can barely look at each other. How they stand across the room when usually they're side by side. Anyone can see something's wrong.

"We're fine," is all she says.

And I know it's none of my business. I know that. But at the same time, it is. Because it's Maggie and Glenn. ". . . No, you're not," I say, which is bold of me. Maggie doesn't reply. So I go on. "Look, my dad doesn't know this, but my mom was raped."

I feel her eyes move to me. Dart to me. But I just keep on keeping watch. "It was an ex-boyfriend. Shawn. He still had a key to our place and he came in late one night. Mom never told anyone about it. Well, I mean, she did, she pressed charges, Shawn was convicted, but . . . she kept it quiet. She didn't tell anyone close to her. Not my grandparents. Or my dad. I wouldn't have ever known, I bet, if I hadn't been in the next room when it happened."

"Oh, Sydney . . ."

"It was a long time ago." Isn't that what Dad said to me last night? And what did I say back to him? _I don't care!_

But this isn't about me, not really. I lower the binoculars and turn to Maggie, who's looking at me with a very sad look I didn't mean to put on her face. Too late now, though. "I don't know why she didn't want to talk about it. But . . . she should've. If she had, I think things would have been . . . better."

Maybe she wouldn't have broken down crying so much for the weeks that followed. Maybe our liquor cabinet wouldn't have emptied out so fast only to be filled up just as quickly.

"I don't know what all the Governor did to you, or how far it went, but . . . I don't know. Just . . . maybe you should at least . . . _try _. . . to talk to someone. Because you've got a lot of people that love you. And you and Glenn . . . you guys are good together, I think."

She's looking away and her eyes are wet. Brilliant, I made her cry. But now she reaches over and squeezes my knee, and maybe, maybe I didn't just screw things up after all.

But that little story, that's pretty much all I got in me, so I sigh and put the binoculars back up to my eyes, more than ready to move on from it. It's one of those things I very much want to forget.

And I get to, at least for a moment. Because just as I'm on my first sweep, I see it. There, just moving out of the trees. A walker, a strange-looking walker, but why . . . ?

It has a pole connected to it. A pole like the ones the people at Woodbury had. And the person holding it has a very blonde head of hair –

"Maggie." I put the binoculars in her hands, my palms already starting to sweat, definitely not just because of the sun. "There's somethin' weird out there, I think –" And I just point, I'll just let her see for herself. She looks, the sad face gone, replaced by an on-edge, business sort of look, which is good, that's what we need –

And she confirms it. "It's Andrea. Go get Rick and the others!"

And I'm gone. Through the door, down a humid hallway and over a few walker corpses we haven't dragged out, down some stairs, then through another door and into the side of the dining room, nearly running into my uncle, who I ignore, and Carol's in here, over by the stove, and I don't even look at her, I bolt into the cell block – why the hell is the door between the dining room and our cells not locked? – and there's Rick, talking to Glenn and Michonne, and his face is hard and it's only going to get harder. "Hey!" I yell, and my voice echoes through the cell block and I can feel everyone's attention come to me and I don't even have time to hate it, and Carl's just stepping out of his cell when I announce, "Andrea's here!"

"What?" Yep, called it, Rick's face is harder.

"Andrea's comin' up here! Got a walker on a pole –"

The cell block explodes into movement. Rick barks orders as my dad comes down the stairs and Glenn starts handing out rifles. Carl's going to a lookout, Glenn and Carol are going to the catwalk, and everyone else with Rick. And out we go, right out into the courtyard, Rick and Dad and Merle and Michonne and Beth and me. I have an arrow nocked, and just as I'm leaning up against the truck like the others, it hits me: _I have an arrow nocked. _For Andrea? Can I shoot Andrea? Is Andrea the enemy?

Rick says _go_, and Merle moves up to Silver, does a sweep with his eyes, a gun propped on his metal arm. "Clear!" And then Rick and Dad and Merle move forward, move to the courtyard's gate, spreading out in three different directions as they do. Every one of them has their weapon ready. For Andrea.

_"Are you alone?" _I hear Rick yell.

Andrea's nearly here. I hear her say something back. Open the gate?

"_Are. You. Alone?" _Rick shouts again.

This time I hear Andrea clearly, because all she says is Rick's name, but she says it with such shock and desperation that it seems to be a lot more than that. And Rick tosses my dad the keys and Dad unlocks the gate, and Merle pulls it open, and as Andrea releases her walker and stumbles in, Rick shoves his rifle in her face. "Hands up! Turn around!"

_"What?"_

"Turn around!" And then Rick pins Andrea into a corner, and I watch as he pats her down like she's a criminal. A walker comes and tries to get at Andrea through the fence and Rick pulls her away only to shove her to her knees, and then he finishes the pat-down before taking Andrea's backpack and tossing it away.

And me, I think about Andrea putting her arm around me as we made our way across the CDC's corpse-riddled front lawn. And how she was the only one, _the only one_ who took Dale's side the night he died, when he was pleading for Randall's life. I think of her sitting next to me on a piano bench, her telling me I was brave for putting down the walker that killed Dale and me telling her she was brave for standing up for him. Me apologizing for calling her a bitch after she shot my dad and her apologizing for shooting him in the first place. Me deciding that she might be alright.

And now, now Rick hauls this stranger to her feet and back over to me and Beth and Michonne. Michonne. How does she feel about this?

I don't want to see Andrea's eyes, I don't, but I make myself look because I have to be tough about this. Because if she really is the enemy now, she needs to know that we're strong. But when her eyes brush over mine, she certainly doesn't look like the enemy.

By the time we've gotten inside, Rick's let her go, but she's unarmed and outnumbered. The rest of us, we pour into the dining room, spreading out, Carl and me falling into place next to one another over by one of the tables. Then Andrea's hugging Carol. _Hugging_. And I'm so confused . . .

"Hershel, my God . . ." She's caught sight of Hershel, Andrea has, and the crutches, the gap where his leg should be. Hershel says nothing, so Andrea gets the message and just goes to looking around, all around the dining room, but she doesn't move from her place at the bottom of the steps. Which is probably wise. "I can't believe this . . ." And now her eyes land on Rick. "Where's Shane?"

I move just an inch to the left, so my shoulder's against Carl's. Meanwhile, Rick shakes his head.

". . . and Lori?"

Carl and Rick both look down.

"She had a girl," answers Hershel. "Lori didn't survive."

"Neither did T-Dog," says Maggie.

And let's not do this. Let's not go through this.

"I'm so sorry . . ." breathes Andrea. And then, then she looks over at us, with her face all distressed and whatnot. "Carl . . ."

I press into him harder and glare at Andrea. I don't even know why. But now that she's talking to him, she seems like more of a threat, and Carl, Carl says nothing back to her and I'm glad. Whatever Andrea was going to say, she doesn't say it. Her mouth closes, she pauses, and then she turns to our leader. "Rick, I didn't . . ."

He backs up.

Andrea, Andrea just won't get it. She won't get that we aren't about to throw down the welcome mat. Even after Rick rejects her, her voice half-heartedly brightens when she says, "You all live here?"

"Here and the cell block," says Glenn from next to Carl and me.

Andrea points at the door to the cells. "There?"

Glenn nods once. Andrea moves towards the door, towards where we sleep. "Well, can I go in –?"

Rick blocks her way. "I won't allow that."

She stops short. "I'm not an enemy, Rick."

But we don't know that, Andrea. We just don't.

"We had that field," says Rick, "The courtyard. Until your boyfriend tore down the fence with a truck and shot us up."

"He said you fired first."

"Well, he's lyin'."

Hershel speaks up again. "He killed an inmate who survived in here."

"We liked him," says my dad. He's sitting on the other table, his crossbow on his back. "He was one of us."

"I didn't know anything about that. As soon as I found out, I came." Andrea turns, looks over all of us again. No. She just looks at Glenn and Maggie and me, one by one. "I didn't even know you were in Woodbury until after the shootout!"

"That was _days_ ago," says Glenn.

"I told you, I came as soon as I could." And she looks so disbelieving, doesn't she? Like this is all so unfair. Like it's absolutely unreasonable for us to treat her with such distrust, when she was _right there, _right there in Woodbury while Glenn was being beaten and Maggie was being . . . whatever and I was stored in Merle's apartment. If Andrea's been sleeping with the Governor, how did she not know about any of that?

And when did I hook my release back onto my bowstring?

Andrea's whirled around, around to Michonne, who' wearing a grimace over in the corner. "What have you told them?"

"Nothing."

"I don't get it. I left Atlanta with you people, and – and now I'm the odd man out?"

"He almost killed Michonne," says Glenn. "And he would have killed _us –"_

And here Andrea points up at Merle, standing on top of the steps. "With his finger on the trigger! Isn't he the one who kidnapped you? Who _beat_ you?"

Yep. But no one answers her, and she covers her mouth with both hands for a second. "Look, I cannot excuse or explain what Philip has done –"

_Philip?_

"– but I am here trying to bring us together. We have to work this out!"

"There's nothing to work out." Rick's losing patience. "We're gonna kill him. I don't know how, or when, but we will."

Andrea says we can settle this, that there's room at Woodbury for all of us. Merle scoffs, says she knows better than that. Hershel, Hershel asks Andrea what makes her think the Governor wants to negotiate, has he ever said so, and Andrea says no, and Rick asks what might be the only thing in this whole discussion that actually matters.

"Then why did you come here?"

And Andrea, Andrea looks at him and replies, "Because he's gearing up for war. The people are terrified, they see you as killers. They're training to attack."

"I'll tell you what," says my dad. "Next time you see _Philip_ . . . You tell him I'ma take his other eye."

In spite of everything, the corner of my mouth pulls up and I have to look down to hide it.

"We've taken too much shit for too long," says Glenn. "He wants a war, he's got one."

"Rick," Andrea says, and there's a strange mixture of begging and warning in her tone, "If you don't sit down, and try to work this out . . . I don't know what's gonna happen. He has a _whole town." _

Rick's silent. Except his eyes. They drill into Andrea and say a lot, none of it kind. And Andrea, she huffs out a breath, waves at the room. "Look at you. You've lost so much already. You can't stand alone anymore."

"You wanna make this right? Get us inside," says Rick.

"No."

"Then we got nothin' to talk about –"

"There are innocent people!"

"What innocent people?" I say. _I _say. Why, I don't know, but it's happened, and so as Rick walks off into the cells I speak again, managing to sound calm even though I'm angry now. Very much so. "The kids? The old people? Your Governor pitted my dad and my uncle against one another. Fight to the death, that's what he said. And your _innocent people _were cheering it on."

Andrea shakes her head. "Sydney," she says pleadingly, "It was a complicated situation –"

"No," I say. I have no problem looking into her eyes now. "It wasn't."

"And neither is this," adds Glenn.

. . . . .

Later, we give Andrea a prison car we don't need and Rick even gives her a gun. Two enormous acts of kindness that I guess come from the place inside of us where we remember the old Andrea, the one who fished with her sister and stood by us in battle. Who slept next to _us_, not a one-eyed psycho. She looks around at our group one more time, but she says nothing else. And she gets in the car and Merle opens the gate and we all stand out there with our weapons, and me, I'm thinking that maybe it would have been best if Andrea had stayed dead, too.


	23. Dependent

It's not peaceful on the outside of me. Not with walkers just feet away. But inside of me, I'm very much at ease tonight as Carl and me patrol along a piece of the courtyard fence protected by wood pallets. The sky is clear and the moon is full, and each and every star is shining with all it has, completely untouched by what's happened down here. That's nice to think about.

The walkers leave us alone, mostly, the pallets hiding us from them pretty well, but it's easy for us to see out and into the woods. Merle says it's not likely the Governor will attack in the night, though, which is probably the only reason Carl and I were put out on watch by ourselves. But whatever. I don't mind.

"Big Dipper."

Carl's a few steps to my right. I turn from the pallet and smile a little. "What?"

He nods above us. "Big Dipper."

Yep. There it is, picture-perfect. I raise a hand and trace a line with my finger. "North Star. Always find your way back home."

He readjusts his rifle. "Those are the only two I know."

I look back through a space in the pallet, squinting to help my eyes past the darkness and the walkers, and just as a warm breeze comes and makes my hair tickle my face, Carl talks again. "Glenn said the Governor threw you."

"Yep. Onto a table." I hesitate, because I haven't told anyone this next part, not even Dad. Merle doesn't even know exactly what happened. But this is Carl. "And then later he came to see me after the shootout. Yanked my head back, told me I didn't know what pain was. And then at the fight, he came and grabbed my throat. 'This is what pain is,' he said."

"Why?"

"'Cause he's a psycho, or 'cause I'm Merle's niece . . . but probably mostly 'cause he's a psycho."

Carl sighs. I look at him. I wait five seconds. Then, "Hey. I know you're not okay. And it's fine. I know you will be. Just . . . don't worry 'bout your dad. Rick's tough. Whatever he decides to do, he'll be fine. We all will."

Carl gazes out at the field for a while. "No, we won't be. Not if Andrea's right. If there's a war, someone's gonna die. Maybe a lot of people. Maybe a lot of _our_ people."

"Carl, you can't worry about that."

"I'm not worried," he says simply. "I'm just . . . preparing myself."

I stare at him. "Well, don't."

He gives me a sort of sad look, and then he continues walking along the fence, leaving me behind, because I don't feel like moving. I'm not so relaxed now. And even with the warm breeze, I feel chilled.

Not long after this, Rick comes and takes over watch duty. And as he does, he tells Carl that he's going on a run with him and Michonne tomorrow.

"Me, too?" I say. Rick shakes his head at me though, and I frown.

But Carl, Carl's the one who asks _Why not? _and Rick puts a hand on his head. "Just kinda thought it'd be good for us to have a little time together."

With Michonne?

Carl and I walk back through the courtyard, back to the entrance and to our cell block. "What's goin' on?" I ask as we go, quietly. "Why are they splittin' us up?"

"I don't know. That's not –" He struggles for a moment. "That's not how it's supposed to be."

Exactly. I've had a stomachache all day, but now I think it's getting worse. We go through the cage hallway and into the dining room, and my dad and Merle are here, and as Carl slips away to his cell I go to Dad, pull him to the side. "Why doesn't Rick want me to go on the run with him and Carl tomorrow? Did I do somethin' wrong?"

"Nah, Syd," he says. "He just thinks it might be a good idea for you guys to . . . spend a little time apart."

And that makes no sense. "We just spent nearly three days apart."

"Yeah. . ." Dad sits down on top of a table and I cross my arms, because I already feel mad, and I'm not even sure why. "And both of you had breakdowns 'cause of it."

"I didn't –" But I rethink that. I _did_ start sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of the woods. I had a nightmare about Carl getting devoured by walkers because I wasn't there for him. I took down a walker myself and then kicked its corpse around –

Wait a minute.

"Carl had a breakdown?"

Dad makes a face, looks around the dining room, and I do, too, but Merle's the only one here – just sitting over in the corner, watching us, looking kind of amused, which really gets under my skin. But Dad's talking again. "Look, don't tell him I told you 'bout this, but the whole time we were gone he didn't talk. Barely ate . . . Basically, everything you did."

" . . . Why didn't he tell me that?"

"'Cause he's got himself a little crush on ya," says Merle from behind me. Way too loud. "Wants you to think he's tough."

"He is tough!" I snap back. "And he doesn't have – we're not –" But Dad pulls me back around, and he tells Merle to stay out of this.

"And you nearly had a walker sneak up on ya back on the bridge, 'cause you're used to Carl always bein' there," Dad reminds me, and I clench my teeth, because I don't think he's being fair. "You two can't be that dependent on each other."

"We're not. We're just – we're friends." I almost add _partners_, but I don't think that would help us too much in this case. "And I don't want him goin' out there alone."

"Syd, he ain't alone."

"But it –" _But it feels like it. _That wouldn't help in this case, either. In fact, I'm not so sure this is a case I can win.

Dad brushes some hair out of my eyes. "You go on to bed. We'll figure out somethin' for you to do tomorrow, keep your mind off it."

Keep my mind off the fact that they're breaking up Carl and me. Making it impossible for me to protect him. Right. I leave the dining room – scowling at Merle as I go – and head straight for Carl's cell. I'm pissed now. Just a little while ago I was fine, looking at the stars, enjoying the night. Now I'm just . . . _shit_. There are tears in my eyes. Why the hell are there tears in my eyes? I reach up and swipe them away, growling under my breath, before stepping into the doorway of Carl's cell.

"You talk to your dad?" he says when he sees me.

"Yeah. He's with your dad on this." I don't tell him why. Mainly because I feel shitty about the whole thing, kind of wish my Dad had never told me, and don't want Carl to go through that, too. Because according to my swelling eyes, it's very upsetting. "So, just . . . I mean, I'm not gonna be there to have your back. So watch it."

And Carl, bless him, he smiles. "You worried about me?"

"Well, I know that you're helpless on your own."

He grins. Something about it makes my heart beat funny, maybe because, between the run tomorrow and the Governor planning on showing up at our doorstep, I may not get to see one of Carl's rare grins ever again –

That's stupid. That's stupid. Carl will be with Rick tomorrow. And he _will _be with me in the future. And between me and Rick, nothing bad is going to happen to him. Nothing bad is going to happen to Carl. Ever.

"Just be careful, man," I say. And he nods and I go to bed and have another dream of him getting attacked by walkers. Only then the Governor shows up and finishes him off, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it, because my dad and Rick think that Carl and I are too dependent on one another.

Well, maybe we have good reason for it.

As soon as I wake up in the morning, I start dreading the day ahead, because I'm pretty sure I won't be able to think about anything but Carl until he gets back. Then I change clothes, see the blood in my underwear, and find out that I'm very, very wrong.


	24. Easier

"Shit. Shit. Shit." I'm raking my hands through my hair, pacing, taking deep breaths. Panicking, basically. And I have every right to. Because I'm _bleeding. _Because this is the worst possible time for it to happen, the worst. Possible. Time. We're about to go to freaking war and I'm – my body –

"Shit!"

I sit on the bed, jump back up. What do I do? I have no idea what to do!

Yes, I do. Yes I do.

I run up the staircase as fast and as quiet as I can, so Merle and whoever else is already in the dining room don't see me. Carol's cell is one of nearest ones to the stairs. I stand in her doorway, looking at her shape under the grey cover. "Carol?" I whisper, dry-mouthed. I start to step inside, start to say her name again and –

"Sydney!"

And _shit._

There he is, my dad. He's just come from his cell, he's buttoning up his shirt, and he's nearing me and frowning. It's early, but late enough that I figured he'd be up and downstairs by now, I didn't think –

"Don't wake her up, she don't get enough sleep as it is," Dad whispers as he reaches me, right before he tugs me away from Carol's door. Away from Carol. He glances in her cell, I guess to make sure she's still out of it, before turning to where I am at the railing. "What do you need?"

"I – I need . . . Carol."

My voice sounds little, and Dad hears, which is awful for me. And I couldn't have come up with anything better than _I need Carol_?

"Syd," my dad says carefully. Suspiciously. Worriedly. "What's goin' on?"

I don't want to tell him, I don't. This is something Mom was supposed to be here for. Dad was not supposed to be the one –

"Hey!" Dad bends down to me. "Whatsa matter with you?"

And I don't have a choice, I really don't. I hug myself, try to look at Dad, and I can't, not until after I get the actual words out, and I feel my face flush over as I stammer out, "I got – I got my, my period."

For a horrible second, Dad just stares back at me, his face unreadable, and I can't keep eye contact at all. Then he abruptly stands straight up and says something under his breath – _Shit_, I'm pretty sure – and waves towards the doorway he just pulled me from. "Wake Carol up," he says without looking at me. And I do.

I tell her the situation, my wonderful friend Carol, letting it pour out as fast as I can, and I can't get my voice above a mumble because my dad's leaning on the wall by the door, rubbing his eyes most of the time I'm talking, and I hate saying these damned words in front of him all over again. Carol, though, she's easy to tell. She ignores Dad, listens to me, and just nods like I'm talking about a hunting trip. And I love her for that.

After I get it out, Dad says, "Ain't she young?" His jaw is all tight and I wish so much that I hadn't run into him, that he'd never found out about this. He never should have had to know.

"Maybe a little, but not unusually so." Carol's holding my hand. That helps things a little.

Dad's flat-out grimacing now. He flutters his fingers. "Could you . . ."

"Of course."

Dad nods. And then he looks at me. He sighs, looks away, looks back, and _God, _why did I tell him? "You good?" he eventually asks.

"Yeah," I answer, even as I cling to Carol's hand for dear life. But Dad leaves, which takes about a billion pounds off my back. The long breath I let out is all shaky, though, and Carol touches my shoulder.

"Honey, this isn't a bad thing."

"Yeah, I know," I tell her, because it seems like the right thing to say even if she's wrong, even if this is most definitely a bad thing. And it definitely is. "Just . . . do you have . . . stuff?"

Carol gives me a bunch of pads from her own bag. I stare at the things as she wraps them up in one of her shirts, for privacy's sake. As if privacy exists anymore. Oh, God, what if everyone finds out –

"My mom – my mom used tampons," I say as Carol hands me the bundle. "Do I not need to use those, or . . . ?"

"Let's just start with these. Ease you into it." She sits back on the bed as I stare at the package in my hands. Carol, she smoothes my hair, the way I wouldn't have dreamed of letting her do nine months ago. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." That's a lie.

"Do you have any questions about it?"

"No. I don't think so. I mean, my mom talked to me about . . . sex. And everything. When I was nine. So it's not . . . I mean, I get what's happening, I just . . ." And I'm in danger of rambling, so I stop right there.

"Okay," Carol says softly. "I'm here if you need anything. And so's your dad, you know."

I snort, thinking of how fast he got out of here, the way he looked when I told him about _it_. "Yeah."

Carol pats my shoulder. "Give him time. You're his little girl. This a lot for him to take in."

"He took it in fine when I started killin' walkers right and left," I point out. Maybe a touch bitterly.

"It's different." She gives me a nice, comforting smile and my bitter feeling is suddenly washed away by a flood of gratitude towards Carol, towards God or Fate or the Universe for letting her be here, and I have to hug her neck.

Probably those things called _hormones _making me all emotional.

. . . . .

I hate this. I hate everything about this. I want my mother. I very much want my mother. I want chocolate and coffee. I also want to not feel like I'm wearing a goddamn diaper, and I want this stupid stomachache that I now figure must be cramps to go the hell away, and I want Carl back, and I want to _shoot something_. I'm lying on my bed, plucking my bowstring, trying to remind myself why it would be a bad thing if the Governor were to show up right now looking for a fight, when someone blocks out the morning light coming through my doorway. "Hey."

My dad. I close my eyes. "Hi."

"You should come eat somethin'."

No way. Because I think everyone's up by now, their unique blend of voices is echoing through the cell block in that quiet way, and I'm not up for company. Or for being company. I feel too different from my old self. _Old self _meaning the girl I was yesterday. Which I know is silly, but sometimes silly things make a lot of sense when they're in your own head. But to Dad I just say, "I'm not hungry."

He comes and stands by the bed, resting his arm on the top bunk. I watch him but I don't sit up. "Look, Little Bit," he begins, slowly, and he actually bites off a hangnail before he says the rest. "If we need to talk 'bout anything, we can. If you got . . . questions . . ."

Hell no. Hell no. Hell no.

"Dad." I _do_ sit up now, fast enough that I get dizzy, and I pull out my serious face for him, because I'm very serious indeed about wanting him to _not go there_. "Mom . . . talked to me already. I'm . . . I don't have questions."

Dad huffs out a breath. "Yeah, I figured she probably took care of that." His eyes go to something behind me. My picture of the three of us. But then he's looking at something else so fast I'm thinking that maybe he didn't look after all. "Guess she'da been better for you to have around right now."

I swallow. I don't have to say it, he knows I miss her. And he doesn't have to say his part, either. Dad, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I still ain't got this solo dad stuff down, do I?" he says instead.

And I could tell him that he's wrong, that even alone he's a great dad, but I already sobbed that into his chest just the other night. So instead I think, shrug, and say with as much of a smile as I can muster, "You're gettin' better at it."

He chuckles once, which I like. It makes it easier for me to smile. But he drops his eyes to the ground when he says, "Be easier if you'd stop growin' up on me."

And it's not like him to say something like that and I'm not sure what to say back. Finally I just go with a simple, "Sorry." And I am. Because sometimes it would be easier on me, too. Like, if I was Judith's age. There would be none of this _growing up _stuff, and I wouldn't even know Carl was gone today. I wouldn't have the sense to be angry at Merle and I wouldn't be able to miss my mom and I wouldn't be able to fear the Governor. Or the other things that creep into my nightmares.

Damn. Now I'm thinking about all of that, not just my . . . my period. But Judith, Judith's probably sleeping right now, and I doubt there's a scary thought in her head. All she knows is warmth and love and safety.

Lucky girl, Judith.

"Hey," Dad says, bringing me back to now, to one of the spots of good I _do _have in my life, can't deny that. "When all this is over, and the Governor's in the ground, I owe you a huntin' trip. Alright? Just the two of us."

He really knows me, doesn't he? Because nothing sounds better right now than that. A hunting trip. Something normal, something I did back before all this, before all of the things that came with the walkers, the things that came with getting older. Yes, we'll go on a hunting trip.

But first we have to put the Governor in the ground.

"Syd, you sure you ain't confused over nothin'? 'Cause I can send your uncle in here. Have him talk to ya 'bout them coons . . ."

I throw my pillow at him and he holds me down and tickles me.


	25. Takin' Care of Family

"You're not gonna say goodbye?"

Carl. Of course he'd come after me, of course he'd come find me sulking out here on the catwalk even though the sun combined with my rapid heartbeat are making me all too hot. No, wait, I'm not sulking. I'm not, I'm . . . simmering. I'm simmering. Because I'm pissed as hell, and even more worried than that. But pissed as hell is easier to express, which is why I look at Carl and hiss, "No, I'm not gonna say goodbye. They shouldn't be goin' and you know it. Not like this."

He gazes out at the courtyard, which the wood pallets across from me hide from my view. I hear them, though. My dad and Rick and Hershel and whoever's out there helping them get ready. There's a car pulling around, there's Rick talking. There's the _clack . . . clack _of Hershel's crutches. Carl tips the brim of his hat lower. Then he comes and sits next to me. "Our dads know what they're doing."

"They need more people, not just the three of them, it's _stupid –"_

"My dad –"

"And _none of them _have gone face-to-face with the Governor before, not really. My dad was too busy fighting Merle and some walkers, and your dad was too busy getting us out of that damn arena! They should take Merle. Or Maggie. Or me. Someone who's at least _talked_ to him before –"

"Sydney, they're going no matter what you think," Carl says, and I stop, catch my breath, and I want to be mad at him for saying that but I'm already too mad at other things to make room. And anyway . . . He's right.

Andrea came back to the prison yesterday. She came back to the prison, and she had a message from the Governor. He's willing to talk to Rick about the issues, she said, meet with him on neutral ground at this abandoned plant. And Rick, Rick decided he'd go, which I find questionable in its own right, because haven't we been gearing up for war? Isn't it a little late to talk truces or whatever? But then Rick said he'd take my dad and Hershel. One fighter and a crippled old man . . . That's it. And that's crazy. Because the Governor can't be taken at his word. Not at all. The Governor is a psycho bastard who for all we know could be bringing in his whole freaking army to take out Dad and Rick and Hershel, and they won't stand a chance, not just the three of them. And it terrifies me. And last night I told them that, and then I stormed away, and not even my dad chewed me out for it, which I think just goes to show that everyone knows _I'm right about this._ So why won't they listen?

My dad's motorcycle starts up below. The sound makes me tense, makes it hard to breathe. And I'm sick of being worried, I'm sick of it. I worry about everything, really, but it's different, it's _worse_, when my dad's going somewhere and I'm not. Even when Carl was gone on that run alone – or, without me – it wasn't as bad as this, because it was just a run, and _most _runs are pretty cut-and-dry. Meeting with the Governor? That ain't cut-and-dry.

The motorcycle and the car start to drive, start to leave. Their passengers start to leave. There's the rattling sound of the gate and Carl and I just listen to the fading engines until we can't hear them anymore. I'm biting into my knuckle at this point. I feel skin break.

"Syd, they'll get back. Hey." Carl leans forward, puts himself in my line of vision. His eyes are earnest. "They'll get back."

He can almost make me sure of it. Almost.

He eventually coaxes me off of the catwalk, back inside, where it's nice and cool and filled with the sounds of guns being handled and a baby crying her eyes out. Carl and me, we opt for the baby, mostly for my benefit, I think. I pick Judith up and sway – I'm good at it now – and let Carl go for a bottle down in the dining room-turned-armory. When Rick said he and Carl and Michonne were going on a run, he didn't mean just your usual food-and-supplies run. He took them back to his hometown, aiming to get some guns from Rick's old police station, but the place was cleaned out already. They ran into the man who helped Rick out in the early days, though, right after he woke up from the coma. Morgan, I think that was the man's name. But Morgan apparently went more or less bat shit crazy and hoarded tons and tons of weapons. Rick got him to hand them over, though. Which is good, we needed weapons, and my dad even got a new crossbow out of the deal. But there's something I don't like about the inside of the prison being a part of the gear-up-for-war plan. The outside's one thing, but where we sleep, where it's supposed to feel like home . . . ?

"It ain't fun, is it, Judith?" I murmur to her. "It ain't fun at all."

Her fingers wrap around some of my hair and she tugs hard on it, like she's saying _No, no, Sydney. You can't let them do this. _

"But there might be a war. We gotta gear up for the war . . ."

Carl comes up the stairs with the bottle and I hand his sister over. I like watching him with her, anyway. He rocks her, feeds her, says soothing things, and my eyes move between her face and his and then to the picture sitting near the top of the crib. Her crib. Carl got it while they were on the run. And that picture, too, which is a picture from some restaurant Carl and Lori and Rick used to go to all the time. It's the three of them, but Carl bothered to go get the picture because Lori's in it. And I can see Lori in Judith, I can. And I can see her in Carl. I almost say something about it but don't. Our moms . . . The one subject we still can't prod much.

He gets Judith to quiet down, Carl does, because he has a gift. Then, without me having to say it, he knows I'm ready, and so he puts her in the crib and leads me down and into the dining room. In all of its glory.

There's a huge wooden table – we found it tucked into a corner of the courtyard – sitting in the middle of the room now. And it's covered in guns, guns of all types. Pistols. Rifles. Shotguns. A bow, too, but Dad says if I ever do manage to get big enough to use it it'll take a few years. But yes, the surface of the table can barely be seen. We got ammo, too. And I know this is a good thing, I know this is what we needed.

But still. This is where we eat. And the arsenal being in here . . . It makes me uneasy.

Glenn and Maggie and Beth and Michonne are all sorting through the guns. Cleaning, loading, checking for damage. Merle's in here, but he's over in his corner. Just watching. He looks at me when I look at him and I quickly look away, grab a handgun, a semiautomatic that's too heavy for me but that I pretend to be fascinated by.

Glenn calls Carl over to him. Glenn. With Rick and Dad and Hershel all gone, he's in charge here, and I'd follow Glenn any day, but he's stressed. Anyone can tell he's stressed. And he and Maggie are still weird. He hands Carl a box of bullets now. "You stash these at the loading dock, alright? Beth – put more up on the catwalk. If anyone gets pinned down, we need to make sure that they have plenty of ammo."

Which is a great idea, unless you like arrows. I look at the gun in my hand, frowning, thinking of how bad my aim was the last time I shot a gun, when the walkers came in –

No. Not going there. My hands find bullets and I go to loading the pistol. A simple, easy process, good and mind-numbing.

"I'll go work on the cage outside," says Glenn, and I'm not sure what he's planning on doing, but he has a blowtorch in his hand. Just as he starts for the steps, though, Merle talks.

"What we should be doin'," is how he begins, pointing his metal arm at the arsenal before us, "Is loadin' some of this firepower in a truck, and payin' a visit to the Governor. We know where he is right now."

I close my eyes and the picture of a limp Governor with an arrow for a second eyeball fills my mind.

"You're suggesting that we just go in and kill him?" says Glenn. You can still hear it in his voice. How much he hates Merle, I mean. Carl's stopped, turned, because he wants to watch the show.

"Yeah, I am," answers my uncle. And I'm not one to agree with him, but it's not a bad idea, Glenn, it's not a bad idea –

Michonne now. To Merle. "We told Rick _and _Daryl that we'd stay put."

Right. Right, yes, we did. I lower my head, because no matter how wrong I think their call was, I can't just say screw it and do whatever the hell I want. That's not how this works, it can't work that way.

But Merle doesn't get that. "I changed my mind, sweetheart. Bein' on the sideline with my brother out there . . . It ain't sittin' right with me."

I put the gun back on the table, harder than I need to. Because now he's such a loyal brother? Now he wants to swoop in and protect Dad?

"The three of them are right in the middle of it," says Glenn. "No idea we're coming – they could get taken hostage or killed. A thousand things could go wrong."

"And they will!"

Carl moves forward then, looking right at my uncle. "My dad can take care of himself." Then he heads for the door, just that simple.

"Sorry, son," Merle calls after him, "But your dad's head could be on a pike real soon."

Carl doesn't look back. I wait until he's out of the room before I tell Merle, "Don't say things like that to him."

"What, Princess, you think your dad's gonna be any different if we just leave 'em out there?"

Screw the arsenal. I can't deal with him. "And don't say things like that to me." And I walk away.

For an hour or so, I waste time reading the novel Glenn got for me the day Merle kidnapped us. It's a crappy thriller, not good at all, but it's new, so I read away, convincing myself that I'm into it when really I just want to be out of what's going on around me.

But I can't be, not for long. Because eventually I hear raised voices coming from the dining room. And I have to go see what's happening. Like a car wreck, like a car wreck.

" . . . Michonne can do it, why can't you?" is the first thing I can really make out. And it's Maggie saying it. And by the time I get in the doorway and can see into the room, Merle's yelling back from the other side of the weapon table.

"'Cause it's my brother out there, that's why!"

He has a bag. Filled up and bulky. The butt of a rifle is sticking out of the opening, and I get it, I get what he's doing, and something cold spreads out through me and I quietly say, "And it's _my_ dad."

Michonne, Maggie, Glenn, and Merle. That's who's in here. That's who I feel staring at me. Well, no. I _see_ Merle staring at me. I'm staring right back. Like it's just him and me. "And I'm stayin' here, anyway," I say, still speaking all low, still feeling cold inside.

My uncle points at me. Sort of. It's with his metal arm, which has a new blade duct-taped to it. "Don't get me started on you, missy. You tried to _stab_ me. You don't know the first thing 'bout takin' care of your family."

As far as I know, nobody else knew anything about the shard, my escape attempt. Not until now. And I might have focused in on him bringing that up, if it hadn't been for that last sentence, because that last sentence, that's all that matters now. "Takin' care of my family?" I move around Maggie – dodging her hand, ignoring her saying my name – and around the table, to where I'm right in front of my uncle, and I say, "Don't you talk 'bout takin' care of family."

"Sydney Rose –"

"Tell me somethin'!" The cold in me is so cold, so cold . . . no, not cold. Not cold at all. Burning hot. _White_ hot, and it rises in me and – "Where the hell was this protectin' your brother idea when your dad was –"

I would've stopped there anyway, I hope, my insides white hot or not. Because _that's_ nothing the group should ever hear about, at least not from me. But Merle is what actually stops me. Him taking my arm, yanking me to him, leaning down to me so our faces, our blue eyes, are inches apart. That's what stops me. "You weren't there! You don't know! You don't know –"

Then he's gone and his hand lets me go and Glenn's hitting him and Maggie's hauling me back and Merle and Glenn are throwing punches on the floor and Michonne's trying to break them up and then there's a _bang _and Beth's pointing a smoking gun at the ceiling and Merle's saying _Let me go, let me go! _and he's getting to his feet and so is Glenn but Merle's the one looking at me and Maggie puts her arm protectively over my chest but Merle doesn't step closer, just says through clenched teeth, "You ain't got no idea what I've done to protect your dad! What I've done to protect _you!_ _You ain't got no idea!"_

And whatever delusion he has in his head, whatever he's thinking he's been so gracious about, I don't want to hear it. "Go to hell, Merle," I whisper. And as I shrug off Maggie and move away, I add, "Just don't take my dad or Rick or Hershel or _any one of us _with you."

The first tear streaks down my hot face then, but at least I managed to hide them until he couldn't see my face anymore.

"You're as bitchy as your mama, you know that? _You hear me, _you ungrateful –"

And the white hot in me turns to an explosion and I try to run back to him, screaming _You son'bitch, just shut up, _but Maggie's pushing me, pulling me, dragging me towards my cell and saying panicky words and I just shrug her off again, angrily this time, and my legs move, they carry me and carry me and carry me until I'm out on the catwalk and there's nothing but the white noise of the walkers and I sit and curl up in a ball and the white hot freezes over again and the ice cracks and I cry but don't sob, I won't sob, I won't let myself, not because of Merle. He won't make me that pathetic. He won't. And some time later Carl's appeared beside me and I put my face in between his shoulder and the fence so I'm hidden and he and I stay there and stay there until the distant rumble of a motorcycle touches our ears.


	26. Underestimating

_We're goin' to war._

The catwalk's become my new happy place, I guess. Especially the catwalk at night, when I really shouldn't be out here. But the catwalk's a blind spot to most of the lookouts, so on-watch Beth doesn't know about me and my happy place. And so I pace and pace freely along it, letting my mind take me here and there, circling through bad things and trying to think of solutions to them and not doing very good.

_We're goin' to war, _said Rick, when they miraculously got back from meeting with the Governor – which probably happened mostly because Merle never left the prison and so never hijacked the situation. Don't know why he decided not to go. Don't care. Don't care about much of anything involving him.

_He wants us dead. For what we did to Woodbury._

_ We're goin' to war._

I stop, clutch the fencing. It's different, thinking one thing and then hearing someone in charge say it. Admit it. Confirm it, whatever. Point is, it changes everything. It makes a distant threat real and here, it makes it a monster roaring in your face.

_We're goin' to war. We're goin' to war. We're goin' to war._

And now I'm in a different night, in a different place, and I'm not alone.

_If there's a war, someone's gonna die. Maybe a lot of people. Maybe a lot of our people._

I turn up my eyes now, back in this night, and I search the sky. There's the Big Dipper. And there's the North Star. Always find your way back home.

The fencing is digging into my hand. I squeeze harder. It hurts, it hurts, and it's so much better than listening to the voices going through my mind.

_War._

_Someone's gonna die._

_War._

_Maybe a lot of our people._

I go inside and go to bed and let the nightmares come, hoping that if I dream about the bad things they'll be swept from my mind and I won't worry anymore. So in my sleep the Governor comes and pits me and Carl against each other in a death match, and Carl gets shot in the head before anything can happen and I have to use his body as a shield when the Governor starts shooting at me. And then my mom and my dad and Merle are screaming at each other. And then Rick is dressed in a camouflage military uniform and holding a rifle and talking about going to war and he has a bandage over his eye. And then I've got a bottle and I'm about to feed Judith and I look in her crib and her brains are splattered across the pink sheets . . . and the bottle isn't for a baby anymore, it's a whiskey bottle . . .

I wake up sweating and go up to the catwalk and wait the hour until dawn. I watch the sunrise. Then I go inside and Carol's making eggs from the shitty powder and my dad's up and I go to him and lean my head on his, but just for a second, because he pulls back to look at me better. He shakes his head a little. "You sleep at all last night?"

"Yeah."

He grimaces but doesn't say anything else. And I eat my breakfast and never once look at Merle and then I go to my cell and just sit on the bed, holding my bow, then waxing it, then tightening its nuts and bolts, then just holding it again and staring at the wall. One by one, the others get up, move around. I hear Judith. I see Carl passing by but I don't say anything to him. Because my voice might shake. And I need to be strong for him right now. I need to be strong, period. Because we're going to war.

And right now the closest I can be to strong is staying in my room and not showing anyone how close I am to breaking.

Later, though, after breakfast time has passed, my dad comes in. We're doing something outside, setting up spikes on the road. Okay. I get up, I follow him, and me and Maggie and Carl end up luring walkers to the edge of the fence while Dad and Michonne and Glenn put down these curling spiked wires connected to blocks of wood. It's for the war. If Woodbury tries to drive straight up to us, they'll get flat tires. Maybe they won't kill as many of us then.

I don't mean to think like that, I don't. But some thoughts just come. They come and bite into me with icy teeth and don't let go.

After we're finished, I go and sit in my room some more, get back to not showing anyone how close I am to breaking. But Carl's here soon. I barely spoke to him outside. Now he's looking at me, all worried. He stays in the doorway, though. My eyes fall to his gun in its holster. He's very good with it. Better than me. He's also thirteen and about to be a soldier.

"You still upset 'cause of Merle?" he asks.

"Nah." That's a lie. "He ain't worth it." That's not.

"So . . . it's about what Dad said after he got back."

I don't reply.

My dad's there, then, behind Carl. "Hey, man. Give us a second?"

And Carl looks at me and I give him a nod and he nods back and goes. Dad watches him leave and then comes and sits by me, putting his new crossbow on my bed. He thinks I need sleep, but he doesn't look so great, either. "You talked to your uncle lately?"

Oh. So that's what this is going to be about. "No."

"Might wanna."

I trace my fingers over my bow, over the inlaid brand name on the side that doesn't mean anything anymore, like everything else left from the old world.

"Syd, he didn't mean nothin' by what he said."

Because someone told him, of course they did. At least it sounds like it was someone on my side. "Which part?" I say to my bow. "When he called me ungrateful? Called me bitchy? Called Mom bitchy?"

"He's been callin' her that your whole life. It matters to ya now?"

"She's dead now." I look him right in the eyes when I say that. I see the pain spike up in them. It doesn't stop me, though, because I feel the same damn thing and if I can keep talking he can keep listening. "It ain't a game no more, she can't call him an asshole back. Or a bastard. Or a son of a bitch –"

"Okay, I get it."

"And that wasn't even nothin', Dad," I say. "I could get over all that, what he said, if that was the only thing he's done. But it ain't. He kidnapped me. And Glenn and Maggie. He let the Governor get his hands on me, on all of us. He's never done nothin' but look out for himself this whole time. He let your dad –"

"Stop it." My dad stands up, rubs his jaw, walks to the other side of the cell. I stare at his back. "You don't know nothin' 'bout any of that."

"I know Merle wasn't there for you. I know he ain't –"

"What's this? I hear my name bein' taken in vain?" And I see his shadow first. Then he's there in my door, metal arm propped up on the frame. Smile on his lips.

Dad gestures at me. "She's just sayin' –"

"Oh, I got a pretty good idea what she's sayin'." Merle nods a little, I think to himself, and his smile thins out, becomes a line. "Well, c'mon, Little Bit. You got somethin' you wanna say 'bout me? Why don'tcha say it to my face, like a big girl?"

"Merle –" Dad starts, but it's too late, I'm already on my feet. Because I've had it.

I toss my bow on the bed. "You want me say it to your face?"

"Mm-hmm."

And out it comes. "You're a jackass!"

"Sydney!" Dad snaps.

"No, no, little brother, let her go. Let's get this all out in the open."

I step forward, my fists tight at my sides. "I cried for you!"

That wasn't what I meant to say.

"You're a liar. You're a thief. You're selfish and you always have been! I've always known it, all of it! And I loved ya anyway! I loved you!" My voice cracks, but I'm going to get through this, I am, I want him to hear it so I can hurt him the way he's hurt me. "When I saw you outside that store, I ran to you! You remember? I _ran_ to you, because I'd thought you were dead and I'd missed you! And I _hugged _you, and then you _pulled a gun on my friend!"_

I'm sure everyone can hear me. Everyone. But Merle's the only one I care about. Even my dad, over in the corner with his head bowed, just doesn't matter as much as my uncle, not right now, not with this.

"You kidnapped me! You kidnapped _us! _And you let the Governor do whatever he wanted!"

"That ain't –"

"And then we brought you back here and you're still screwin' things up, just like always! But now I can't even love you anyway! I can't! You've gone too far!" I pant. Everything's blurry. "You've gone too far." I shut my eyes and three tears stream down my face. "And you may be staying at this prison, and I may have to work with you, but I don't gotta love you no more. I don't. I ain't gonna. I ain't got no more in me. Not for you."

Through the tears, I can see Merle looking down at me. Then I can see him stepping forward. "Listen here . . ." I can see his hand reaching out, feel it brushing my arm, the same arm he touched yesterday. The one with the scratches the Governor gave me.

I twist away. _"Don't touch me!"_ And I run from him, right out of my cell, but then I stop and face him one last time, and my throat lets my voice be steady long enough for me to say one more thing, and I look right into his blue eyes – my blue eyes – to do it. "You shoulda died in Atlanta, Uncle Merle." And then I'm gone.

I go up to the catwalk and sit where I sat on the day of the meeting with the Governor. I wait for my dad to come find me and chew me out or whatever but he never does, and eventually I lie down and watch the clouds roll by, because there might not be many opportunities left to do that and I like clouds, they're peaceful. I bet nothing bad could ever happen to someone floating on a cloud. And here I stay, on this nice, warm catwalk, and I enjoy this calm time I have before the war comes and maybe kills me or at least crashes into my life and shatters it all up. I just told Merle off, after all. I should feel wonderful.

But really, it's the clouds and the clouds alone that make me feel okay. Or close to okay.

I hear people move around below me, I hear clangs and other prison sounds. Eventually, my dad even comes out, but not to the catwalk. He goes and stands out in the courtyard, scanning, keeping watch, whatever. I roll away from him.

Before long, though, I hear him talking. I hear Rick talking back. I look over there, and yes, they're both out here now. But then they're not. They're running, running to a door, to inside, up some stairs to a cage-like thing that's one of our lookouts and . . . to the boiler room.

Neither of their faces looks like anything good's going on. I mean, they look even worse than usual. Maybe that's why I go to the end of the catwalk and down the stairs to the courtyard. Or maybe I'm just bored. But I do it, and I chase after them, up the steps to the cage-like thing and through the door and into the boiler room.

"Yeah, he took her here," I hear Dad say. "Mixed it up." There are these big machines in the center of the room, though, and Dad and Rick are on the other side, so I can't see them. And they can't see me.

"Damn it," says Rick, and then they move into the next room, and I creep around the machines and wait just outside this door, listening.

"I'm goin' after 'em," says Rick.

"You can't track for shit."

"Then the both of us."

"No. Just me. I said I'd go and I'll go. Plus, if any of 'em come back here, you need to be ready . . . You're family, too." And then there's the sound of a door opening and closing and now there's just one man breathing.

Slowly I step out from behind the door. Rick's still watching the one my dad just left from. "Rick?"

He whips around, takes me in. "What're you doin' in here?"

"Who'd he just go after?"

Rick doesn't answer.

"Dad said _he _took _her _here. And now they're gone. So's my dad." My voice is surprisingly calm, for my heart being very much not. "Rick?"

He's looking at the floor. Then he's looking at me. Then he's coming over, taking my shoulder, leading me out. Then we're walking and talking, the leader and me. And he's telling me everything. How the Governor made him an offer – the prison's safety in exchange for Michonne. How Rick and Dad and Hershel and Merle knew about it. How Rick was planning on making the trade – but Hershel and my dad didn't like it – until this morning. Rick changed his mind this morning. He couldn't go through with it. And now Rick's telling me how Merle must've gone ahead and taken Michonne to the Governor.

"Why?" I ask. My voice is hoarse.

"Because he thought . . . _knew _. . .I'd change my mind."

I look into our field. We shouldn't be out in the open like this, but maybe Rick feels like today's a safe day since we're handing over Michonne. Whatever. Look at all the walkers. Look at all the dead people.

"And my dad's goin' after 'em now," I say. "To stop Merle?" I shake my head. "He won't be able to stop Merle if Merle wants to do somethin'."

"Don't underestimate your father."

"I ain't. I ain't underestimatin' my uncle, neither. I'm gonna go sit on the catwalk." And I turn and go and up the stairs it is and onto the catwalk and I hide behind my wood pallets and just sit and wait. Wait, wait, wait. For what? For my dad to come back with Merle and Michonne? For just my dad to come back? For no one at all to come back?

I used to not worry about my dad, not this much, when he went out alone. But then a lot of people died and now I do. Oh, God. They're going to the Governor. My dad's a great tracker. But what if he doesn't find Merle until he's met the Governor at wherever? What if Dad puts himself in the way of the Governor?

Fear wraps around my insides and pulls closed like a net, so I'm all tight and trapped, and I put my head in my hands.

And then it occurs to me that Merle is in just as much danger as my dad, maybe more, and why that makes the net tighter, I don't know, but it does.


	27. Star Light, Star Bright

I make a decision not to leave the catwalk until someone gets back. Dad or Merle or Michonne. Or all three. It _could_ be all three. And that decision, I stick to it. The sun crosses the sky and has no mercy on me – I can feel it burning my face and arms – but I stay put, with my hands clasped on my lap, with my eyes on the field of walkers, the road with the spikes, and the day comes and goes. Tick, tock, tick, tock . . . I think about Dale's watch and how he wound it every day. Dale's dead and no one winds a watch anymore.

Carol brings me lunch. I know I won't eat it, and she probably knows too, but I thank her anyway. She says I should come inside and get some rest. I tell her I'm going to stay here and wait. She accepts this. She doesn't ask if I want company, either. Carol, she knows me. Or, at least, she knows my dad, and she knows I'm like him. Sometimes, dad and me, we need to be left alone.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Flies start buzzing around the bowl of soup beside me and I pour the stuff over the edge and push the bowl away. The sun just watches me, drifting lower and lower.

I keep my eyes on the field. No one comes back. None of them come back. And finally Carl comes out onto the catwalk.

"My dad wants to see everyone. He has something to say."

I don't move.

"You gonna come?"

"Just tell me about it after, okay?"

"Syd, you've been out here for hours. Are you gonna tell me what's going on? Where your dad's at? And Merle and Michonne?"

No, I'm not. Anyway, I bet that's what Rick wants to talk to them about. I'd hate to steal his thunder. "I'll tell you later. You shouldn't keep your dad waitin'."

He comes over and puts his hat on me. "Here. You need the shade." And then he leaves and I stay. I stay, and stay, and stay.

Then there comes the time when Michonne appears in the field.

She races up the road, dodging the spikes, swinging her sword around and around to cut down the walkers who come after her, like it's what she was born to do, and before long Carl and Carol and Beth are at the courtyard gate and they're shooting at the walkers around Michonne, and then Carl opens the gate, and Michonne comes in and the walkers are closed out.

I've long been down the stairs by then. I'm running along the courtyard and I'm running fast, because it's Michonne. Michonne and Michonne alone.

I'm pretty sure someone's talking when I reach the group of four, but I cut them off and I couldn't care less that I do it. "Why're you alone?" I huff out, stopping fast, skidding a little, staring at Michonne as she turns to me with her eyes, always so dark and hard and piercing. Only not so much right now. Not so hard, anyway. "Why're you alone?" I ask again. "Where are they?_ Why're you alone?"_

"Your uncle let me go," Michonne says slowly. "I met your dad on the way back and he went after him."

I take in the words, sort through them, try to grasp what they mean. What they mean for me and for Dad and Merle and for all of us. "My . . . my uncle, he was . . . Was he still goin' to meet the Governor?"

Michonne doesn't answer. Just looks at me. Which is answer enough, actually. I clench my teeth so hard I send sharp pains shooting through my gums. "Why'd you let 'em go? Why didn't you try and stop 'em?" Spit flies from my mouth, my clamped teeth.

Michonne just keeps looking. Carol touches my shoulder and I step back from her and tell Michonne, _"You shoulda tried to stop 'em!"_ And then it's back across the courtyard for me, back up to the catwalk. I don't sit, I can't sit, there's too much of something, everything, rushing through my body. Adrenaline. Anger. Guilt. Terror. Terror. That's different from fear. Fear is dark and cold. Terror is bright white, icy, and icicles stab into your sides and chest and heart and lungs and it hurts and you shake a lot.

I pace. I'm a good pacer. By the time I make it all the way across the catwalk and spin back around, Carl's at the top of my staircase. He comes to me and I go to him. "Syd, this doesn't mean –"

"_They're goin' to the Governor! They've probably got there already and –" _Here, screaming gives way to a little kid's broken whine. "I can't lose 'em both – Carl –"

He's only thirteen, but his arms are so strong. I fit right into them, the way my face fits into his neck, like I discovered last time we hugged, and last time his hat fell from his head but now it falls from mine. This isn't a happy hug, though, it's not a _good to see you _hug or even an _I missed you like hell _hug. This is a hug in which he's a life raft, the only thing keeping me from collapsing and breaking down.

We end up sitting, eventually. Carl's arms end up away from me, too, which I know is how it should be, because we're not the way Maggie and Glenn are, but I still miss them, those arms. And we stay quiet for a while, and he gets his hat back and rests it in between us, and soon I ask him to tell me what his dad said, and he talks.

First of all, Rick told them about the deal with the Governor. About Michonne. He told them how he changed his mind but Merle took Michonne before Rick could tell him the plan was off. He told them everything about the whole thing, basically. And then Rick said that, what he said that first night, after the farm was overtaken? About how he was totally, completely in charge? It can't be that way. And then he said we're going to put it to a vote whether we stay and defend the prison or go before the Governor shows up here.

I've listened quietly, letting the tears dry. Now I wipe the streaks from my face as best I can, because I can feel them making my skin all chapped. "Think we get a vote?"

"Probably not. We should."

"How would you vote? If you could?"

His hand goes to his revolver, which gives me my answer right then. "This is our home. This is the safest place we've ever been."

"Yeah, from walkers."

"Then we gotta make sure the walkers are the only things we have to fight."

And we're going to do that by fighting. By dying.

But I don't want to leave the prison, either. I like the prison. I like my bed and my cell and the fact that Judith has a crib and I like the catwalk. "Yeah. We should stay." I take a deep breath. "That's how my dad'll vote, I think. When he gets back."

Carl looks at me for a while. I see him doing it out of the corner of my eye. "You don't know he'll get back."

For some reason, that makes me chuckle. It's like one of Merle's laughs, though. Not really happy. "Why would you say that to me right now, man?"

"Because you shouldn't get your hopes up. Because you need to be prepared."

Oh, Carl.

"Why?" I turn my head towards him, searching for an answer in his eyes. He doesn't offer one, not soon enough, not before I can tell him, "I don't wanna be prepared for somethin' like that. I don't wanna be that cold." And you don't either, Carl. Not really.

He doesn't have anything to say then. Or, at least, he doesn't bother to say it. Just keeps eye contact going.

"If it was your dad out there, would you be _prepared_ for him not to come back?" I challenge, and I realize too late that his answer might not make me happy.

Carl, he takes his hat, puts it on, grips the fence, stands up. I watch his face the whole time. He watches mine right back, and then, when he's on his feet, he answers, "I was when he went to Woodbury after you."

I swallow. It's hard, because Carl's made my mouth dry up. Or the sun has. Or both. The question leaves my sandpaper tongue before I can think it through. "Then I guess you were prepared for me not to come back, too?"

He looks at his boots, then at me, and he nods. His favorite tough-guy expression is on his face. He walks around me, towards the door. Just before he disappears inside, though, I manage to call after him, "You can't prepare for somethin' like that, Carl! You can't!"

Or, at least, you shouldn't be able to.

The boy who wouldn't take my dad's stolen gun all those months ago, when I offered it to him to keep. He wouldn't try to prepare himself.

And now I'm alone again. And I don't have a hat to shade my face. And I got all too much to think about. So, I tilt my head up and watch the clouds again, say _screw it _to all the things to think about.

Eventually the clouds' background goes from lighter blue to darker blue, with a nice pink tint to it. Then the clouds start to turn a tiny bit orange themselves, just a little. The sun's all the way behind me now and it's not so hot anymore, but there's still sweat in my hair, my greasy, dirty hair. Mom would have a heart attack if she saw me like this. It's probably for the best, really, that Mom didn't live this long. She wouldn't have been able to bear the life. The dirt and the food and the guns and the gore.

No, no, it's not for the best. But isn't it nice to think so? Isn't it nice to think that it's what she would have chosen, to die so early on? That she would have preferred it to living now?

I want my dad. I want my daddy, I want him, and – and I want Merle –

Then there's the familiar sound of a walker skull cracking open and I'm on my feet and looking out into the field. There's a figure putting down a walker, I guess with a knife. Now he's running up to the gate, where Glenn and Maggie wait. And it may be close to dark, but I know that figure, and it doesn't even take the crossbow on his back to give him away. I just know him. And the air leaves my lungs and I've tensed to bolt down the stairs and into his arms and then I remember that he's not supposed to be alone.

My dad wouldn't leave Merle.

And so I watch. I just watch the shadows play before me. The one with the crossbow comes through the gate and walks past the boy and the girl. The boy and the girl stay behind for a minute and then follow, walking slower than the one with the crossbow. I move back and lean against the fence and sink down and wait some more. I've waited all day. I can wait longer. Actually, I don't mind it now. I could wait for another day, another hundred, or more, even. Hell, I could spend the rest of my life on this catwalk in this dusk. It's nice here.

Minutes. Not days. Not nearly long enough and the door opens. "Sydney?" Carol says. The first stars are coming out. I look at them as I answer.

"Is he okay?"

"He's . . . not hurt."

Oh, just listen to her voice. I wonder if she knows how much she gives away with that voice. But do I even know? No, maybe I don't. I could be wrong. I'm wrong all the time.

"Honey, you should come in –"

"He was alone."

That stops her. Pretty stars. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight.

I say, "Why was he alone?"

I hear her come closer, and her footsteps are all soft. She'd make a good hunter.

"Carol. Why was he alone?"

For the second time today, she touches my shoulder, and for the second time today, I move away from her hand. My arms shove and my legs kick until I'm out of her reach but facing her and she hasn't answered me so it's for good reason, I think, that I shriek the question this time. _"Why was he alone?" _Her eyes are shining as much as the star light star bright, first stars out here tonight, and her lip is trembling, and her arms are crossed now and her head is shaking at me.

I bring my knees into my chest. "Why was he alone . . ." I say. Sob. I sob it. I fall over on my side in my little ball and I sob away. And I don't listen to either of the voices, I don't listen to the one outside of me, the one telling me _it's okay, it's okay, honey, honey, just come with me_, _we'll go see your dad, _and I don't listen to the one inside of me even though it's louder than the outside voice, I hear it but I can't listen, I can't mind – but I hear it, I hear it, like I always heard it before. Long ago.

_Dry up, girl, you're s'posed to be tougher'n that._


	28. Sorry

Stillness has taken over my body. Trapped me. I've tried to fight it, but it found me, finally, on this chilly morning, even as the prison moves all around my cell, folding in on itself. My group is packing up. Cleaning out. My cell, it's already lonely, except for me and my bag and my bow. But that's not much company, really. My feet are on the floor and my elbows are on my knees and my hands press against my lips. And stillness holds me tight and makes me watch things.

. . . . .

_Merle's hand takes my arm. "Hm-hmm," he sort of laughs, his face right in front of mine, over the shiny little weapon I just tried to attack him with. He sort-of laughs, yeah, but his eyes don't have a trace of happiness in them. Merle's eyes are . . . in pain. "What were you gonna do with that tiny thing, scratch my back for me?" He squeezes my wrist, squeezes until I have to drop the shard._

_"I wasn't tryin' to kill you."_

_"Oh, I know that, darlin'. You just wanna protect your friends, right?" His voice deepens. "Forget about your family. Your __blood." _

. . . . .

Stillness releases my right hand. Lets me use it to rub my other wrist, clutch that wrist, but my hand's too small and weak to compare to my uncle's.

. . . . .

_"I don't wanna talk to you." _

_"Hey, now. C'mon darlin', I'm just tryin' to work out our little problems."_

_"Ain't none of our problems little. And most of 'em probably can't be worked out." _

. . . . .

I should go. I should go, load my bag in some vehicle, get out of here. Oh, but stillness has me, doesn't it? Stillness is being cruel. It lets me clamp my eyes shut but that hurts more than it helps and then I'm stuck like that and watching, watching, watching. Hearing. Listening. I listen to the inside voices now, always, even if I don't want to.

. . . . .

_"__I don't gotta love you no more. I don't. I ain't gonna. I ain't got no more in me. Not for you."_

"_Listen here . . ." I can see his hand reaching out, feel it brushing my arm._

_I twist away. __"Don't touch me!"__ And I run from him, right out of my cell, but then I stop and face him one last time, and my throat lets my voice be steady long enough for me to say one more thing, and I look right into his blue eyes – my blue eyes – to do it. "You shoulda died in Atlanta, Uncle Merle." _

. . . . .

_"You ain't got no idea what I've done to protect your dad! What I've done to protect __you!__You ain't got no idea!"_

_"Go to hell, Merle," I whisper. _

. . . . .

And what did you do to protect us, Merle? What was it? I didn't believe it when you said that, no, no, not my selfish uncle Merle. What would he do to protect us? What would he ever sacrifice?

. . . . .

_"You shoulda died in Atlanta, Uncle Merle."_

. . . . . .

_"You shoulda died in Atlanta, Uncle Merle."_

_. . . . ._

_"You shoulda died."_

_. . . . . _

_ "You shoulda died."_

_. . . . ._

_ "You shoulda died."_

_. . . . ._

_"What happened to you, Merle?" _

_"Same thing that happened to you, darlin'. You're lookin' at me like I'm the devil himself . . . But the little girl I knew would never, no matter what, try to spill her uncle's guts all over the floor. So maybe you should take a good long look in the mirror before you go __tellin' me just how far from grace I've fallen."_

. . . . .

Maybe I should look in the mirror. Maybe I should. But I don't want to. I'm so scared to.

. . . . .

_"You shoulda died in Atlanta, Uncle Merle."_

. . . . .

I grit my teeth and swing my neck around and it cracks and pops and stillness is broken away, for now, and freedom should feel better than this. I slam my hand onto my bag and find a grip. Then there's my bow and arrows. My beautiful bow and arrows. The weight of my quiver on my back, the weight of my bow in my hand, keeps stillness at bay. Saving me, probably. And I walk. I don't bother looking back at my cell. I know what empty looks like, and not just because the entire cell block already is.

The cold's moving in. It dives into my skin as I step outside and I welcome it, I welcome the cold. Cold's good for me. We match. I duck my head and shrug to make my jacket fall in closer around me, hiding me, teasing cold. Come find me, cold, come find me. I move forward, towards Silver. I don't look to my left because I know the motorcycle's there and I'm already spending enough time with my memories. To Silver, to Silver. The back's open. Beth's there. I nod at her. She tries a smile. I don't. I put my bag on top of the pile and walk away. There's Glenn, Maggie, Hershel, standing around our cars. And Rick, working at the hood of one of the open ones. My uncle was good with cars. Carl, Carl's over there, at the other end of that car, sitting with his hat tipped low so he doesn't have to look at the world. He's mad at it right now. Barely talking, even to me. Because life's so unfair. I watch him age for a second and then I walk the other way, to the other end of the courtyard. Look, bleachers. What fun we've had, me and these bleachers. The time I fought with Carl and ran out here to hide? Then asked Dad if I could go on a run, a simple run, where nothing could go wrong? Good times, good times. I don't feel like sitting, so I step up onto them, these fun bleachers, walk across, jump down. On I walk, because stillness is the enemy. Over to the edge of the fence, farther than I should go. I have gloves on, but they're fingerless and so my fingers are icy and nice and numb. Look out at the field, look at all the walkers. I remember when walkers were the worst thing in the world. The monsters. I watch as one trips over something and I think I have the urge to smile somewhere deep down in me but it doesn't come up, doesn't show. A smile right now . . . Does my face remember what a smile is?

"Syd."

I sigh. I don't want him here. I've avoided looking into his eyes ever since I saw them all red. But I turn and set my gaze on Dad's mouth, and that's close to his eyes, at least, maybe it'll fool him. He's five steps away. Four, three. "You ready?"

"Yeah."

Two steps, one. He puts his hand on my back and steers me away from the fence, over to the cars. He rubs my neck and he shouldn't. "Don't be worryin', alright?"

"Alright."

"Hey. I love you."

"You too." And then I move away from him, to where Hershel and Beth and sulky, sulky Carl wait by Silver. And guess what? I managed not to look in Dad's eyes once.

. . . . .

. . . . .

. . . . .

They've blown up our towers. Blown them out, at least. They're still standing, our nice strong towers, but most of them are on fire at the top. Or just smoking. Going to need repairs after this is over. Which could be soon, I don't know. Maggie and Glenn just started shooting. We can hear them even over the blaring alarms that remind me of cutting open Lori. And the Woodbury soldiers, they're shooting back, because that's what you do in war, you try and kill each other, _boom boom boom._

They drove into our prison, those huge cars, and then our towers starting going up, blowing up. There were gunshots, heavy and rapid, Woodbury taking care of our walker problem. Our plan was to lure them into the tombs, the people of Woodbury. And I guess they took the bait, since the alarms are going off now. They'll have met smoke bombs and walkers, walkers, plenty of walkers. Their numbers will be thinned now, as they race back out, right in the view of Maggie's and Glenn's lookouts, ideally. Maybe the Governor's already dead. Maybe he's been bitten. Maybe he's turned.

But no. I don't want him to turn. I want him to be able to recognize me when I kill him. Oh, if we win this, they better not kill the Governor right away. They better hold him. Rick might want that, right? He'll want to kill the Governor himself. But me, I can sneak in. Just one quick second, just long enough for the Governor to see me and know me and then I can kill him, kill him, kill him. Spill his blood, take his eye, stomp him into the ground.

"I should be there," says Carl, eyeing the prison. First thing I've heard him say all day.

He's looking for me to agree. _Me, too, _I should say, that sounds like me. But I'm not up for it. So I let him brood. Him, me, Hershel, Beth, and a brush-covered Silver, we're hiding out here, out in the woods. Out of sight, hopefully. Waiting for the bullets to stop flying and the fires to stop burning so we can go take in the damage of our prison and maybe execute the Governor.

No, he doesn't deserve to be _executed. _He'll be _murdered._ Butchered. Slaughtered like an animal.

_ Boom, boom, boom._ _Bambambambambambambambambambambambam. _And lots of yelling. Finally the alarms stop, and then there're more gunshots after that, but then those stop, too. And now vehicles drive out. Theirs. We see them, hear them. They fly away. And we've done it, then. We've chased out Woodbury. But the Governor? Is the Governor dead? Is he here, do we have him? That's what matters now. The Governor. But I have to be patient. Or pretend to be. So I stand quietly and occupy myself and fight off stillness by trying to remember what comes after _John at the bar is a friend of mine . . . He gives me my drinks for free,_ and I wait for Hershel to tell us okay, we should drive in, it's probably safe, let's go, or something, but then we hear footsteps. Coming closer. None of us speak, we know what to do. Down behind Silver we go, ducking, crouching. The footsteps near and near and near and then they're right on us and Carl and me jump out, my arrow and his gun aimed. The man in front of us stops. The boy. He's not much older than Carl, only a few years ahead of him, probably. He has a gun, though. Still, he skids to a stop and his eyes go wide and he doesn't point it at us, he doesn't point the gun at us, but we keep on aiming at him. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" he says, breathless. "Don't shoot!"

Hershel, too, he's stood up from behind the car, his pistol up. "Drop the weapon, son."

"Sure." The boy's eyes go from Hershel to Carl, who's closest to him, and he leans forward, his arm edging forward inch by inch, stretching the gun out to Carl. "Here. Take it."

I wait for Carl to reach out a hand but he doesn't. The boy sees this and instead starts to lower down, starts to put the gun at his feet, I think. And then Carl shoots him. Right in the head.

I keep my arrow trained on the boy as he falls, because he can't really be dead. He's a human who was handing over his gun and Carl wouldn't have killed a human handing over his gun. That makes no sense, that makes no sense, so why is there so much blood? Why does it look like a walker just got put down? What's this pink-red stuff on my boot?

Carl. Carl. My arm snaps down, my head snaps to him. Stillness is no threat anymore. Carl's staring at the body. His mouth is a little open and he's breathing hard. He's staring. He looks surprised.

He doesn't look sorry.


	29. Good Hunter

Following Carl and Hershel into the prison, I nearly run into my dad. "Is he dead?" I ask him right off the bat. He holds my arms, looks me over like he always does after I've been away for over five seconds, and says no. I readjust the strap of my duffel bag. "You goin' after 'em?"

"Looks like it. We'll talk in a minute, 'kay?" He passes me, goes out the door, to get some of the bags from the vehicles so we all can move back in and fill this empty place up again. I scan the dining room, expecting some sort of _good _feeling to at least creep in on me, but I end up biting into my cheek. Because the Governor was in here. In _my _space. Where my uncle –

"No, he drew on us!"

Over to my right, Carl's standing with Hershel and Rick. I don't have to wonder about what they're discussing. I move closer as Rick takes Carl's shoulder and says, "I'm sorry you had to do that."

"It's what I was there for." Carl steps back. "I'm _going _with you."

To Woodbury? He must mean Woodbury. And now I find myself brushing past him. "Can I talk to you?" I mutter without stopping. But I was trying to mimic the tone my mother used to use when she was pretending to ask a question but really telling you to do something, and I must have done a good job, because I hear Carl following behind me as I walk away.

When I reach my cell, I don't waste time. I drop my bag and bow and arrows on the sad bare bed and turn right to Carl. I only have to look at him.

"I had to do it," he says simply.

"No. You didn't."

He looks annoyed. "He had a gun –"

"That he was handing over," I hiss, getting close to him, trying to get his attention without drawing anyone else's.

"He could've been dangerous."

"Don't bullshit me! I was there! The guy was scared as hell and you shot him down!"

His face says he thinks I'm crazy. His bag slides from his shoulder and thumps loudly on the floor. "I couldn't take the chance!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ask Dale! Or Merle!"

I stare at him.

"Oh, wait, you can't. They're dead . . . Sydney, we didn't kill the walker we saw in the swamps, and it killed Dale."

Is he really . . . ? Don't do this, Carl. Please don't.

But he's stepping closer. "And Merle –"

"Don't –"

"My dad left the Governor alive, and he killed Merle –"

"Don't act like you give a damn about Merle! You never cared about him!"

"And you did? The last thing you said to him was that you wish he had died!"

It's like Carl's hit me in the gut. Or, how I imagine it would be. Only maybe worse. Yes, worse. I shuffle my feet back, watching him the way I would watch a copperhead in the woods. No, no. I wouldn't feel any disgust towards the copperhead. Carl's panting, like he was back in the forest, right before he gunned down the boy. He even has the same expression on, almost. Shocked, not sure what just happened was real. Only this time, this time I know I see a speck of sorry in there, right? I must.

But he doesn't say it.

I need to speak. I need to speak, I can't let him think he –

"You're not going to Woodbury."

"What?"

"You're not going to Woodbury."

He blinks. "That's-that's not your call."

I breeze past him now. As I go, I whisper, "I'll make it mine."

I find Rick outside, next to the truck, and he's looking up at the catwalk. I come up beside him and follow his eyes, but I don't see anything or anyone up there. When I check him again, he's watching the ground. So I talk.

"Rick?"

"Yeah?"

I shake my head. "You shouldn't let Carl go to Woodbury." But that's not good enough. I swallow. _"Don't _let him."

Rick turns his whole body towards me. I do the same with him, straightening my back, resting my hand inside my bow. "Hershel told you what happened? What Carl did?"

". . . Yeah. Yeah, he told me."

And I can tell by his face that Hershel said exactly what he should've. The truth, I mean. Rick's trying to hide it, how he feels about the whole thing, but I can see it, I can see what's clumping up in his chest right now. Maybe because I'm probably feeling close to the same thing. I duck my head, watch my boot scuff the asphalt. "Carl . . . Carl's my best friend. And I . . . Look, he's a good fighter." And can I say this? Can I say this to Rick? But now I'm thinking about Carl and how he looked back inside, what he said to me and why he said it, and I think I have to keep going. "His head's not where it should be. He's . . . he's . . ." _Cold. Hard. Scaring me. _I'm struggling, I know. "Rick, haven't you noticed something?" I finally say, a little desperately.

He doesn't answer for a long time. The lump in his throat, the Adam's apple, it moves around a lot. And then he says, "Yeah, Sydney, I have."

"So you agree with me?"

His eyes are on the catwalk again. Then they're not. He nods without meeting my gaze, little fast nods. "Carl won't go to Woodbury."

Relief floods through me. I almost say thank you, but it doesn't seem right. So I just return his nod.

. . . . .

Carl's pouting over on the bleachers later, when the second part of my who-goes-to-Woodbury plan hits me. I swear I didn't give it any thought until Glenn said he and Maggie would stay at the prison. But now it seems like the only thing that makes sense.

"We don't know where the Governor is," Glenn's explaining to Rick, who's just returned to the truck after talking to Carl, while my mind starts whirring. "If he comes back, we'll hold him off."

"Just the three of us?" Dad says. He means him and Rick and Michonne. Three. Only three.

And then my dad's putting a gun over his back and saying _alright _like this is no big deal when my thoughts hit my tongue and I say, "I should go."

Dad freezes. "No," he says at the same time as Rick. Then he starts to move again, as if that's that. But it ain't.

"Listen to me."

Which is not the kind of thing I often say to my dad. Gets him to stop moving, though, gets him to meet my eyes. I take a deep breath. "Three people goin' after the Governor and his people is crazy. I'm a good shot with a bow, Dad, you know I am. An extra person could make a difference."

"Sydney, you're eleven."

"And you told me you didn't want Carl to go," says Rick, sounding almost accusing. My eyes go to him.

"Yeah. And you know why. I still don't think we should bring him. But it makes sense to bring me." I feel oddly calm, which is good, I guess. I'm making an argument my mother would be proud of, I think. "I have a level head, I've seen the inside of Woodbury . . ." I turn to my dad. "And I'm a good hunter."

Several long seconds go by, the only sound coming from the walkers on the other side of the fence and a heavy exhale from Rick, which is followed by, "Daryl, it's your call."

Dad, he hasn't looked away from me once. I feel like his eyes might actually burn a hole through my body before long. But now he's jerking his head to his right. "Let's talk for a minute."

I follow him around the truck, over to the motorcycle, where he crouches down and eyes the thing for a minute before looking at me. I'm still short, but when he's lowered down like this, I'm way above his eye level. I really am growing, I guess.

"Sydney," he says, and then he stops for a long time. His eyes keep going back to the motorcycle even as mine do their best to avoid it. When he talks again, he has that same tight voice he had in Woodbury when he got me back. The voice he had when he told me how my uncle died. "Baby girl, everything you said made sense, I'll give ya that. But I can't let you come."

"Dad –"

"Where you think I'd be if somethin' happened to you? Huh? Especially now –" He clears his throat, looks past me, and my dad's eyes are red again and now mine are getting blurry but no, I can't do this right now.

"Dad," I say. Steadily. "Somethin' could happen to me every day."

"Don't mean you should go chargin' after a psychopath!"

"It's not like I'll be alone." My throat hurts. Damn, damn, damn . . . I need to get through this though, I need to. And I'm going to have to talk about _it_, I think. I think it might be the only way Dad'll let me go. And I _need_ to go to Woodbury. "Dad," I force out, "You heard what I said to him."

He doesn't have to ask who I mean. He looks at the sky, teeth tight together. "Sydney –"

"I told him he shoulda died."

"In Atlanta!"

"It don't matter!" I look at him right in the eye, as hard as he was looking at me a minute ago. "I can't take it back. And I can't make it right, neither." And that's the first time I've admitted that to anyone, myself included, and it's like getting hit in the gut for a second time but I clench my fists and go on. "But I can help put the Governor down. That's what I can do. Dad . . . I gotta do this."

I almost add please but don't. I'm not begging. I'm convincing.

Dad, he rubs his eyes. Or wipes them. I'm not sure. He leaves his fingers digging into his sockets for a long time. Then he says okay.

"Okay?"

He looks up. He grabs my arms and pulls me to him, takes my head in his hands. "Nothin' happens to you. You hear me?"

"I'll be careful, Dad."

He clasps the side of my face and we stay like that for a moment before he hugs me, quickly but tightly, almost painfully. And then he lets me go. "C'mon," he says, clearing his throat again. "You're ridin' with me."

And so, as Dad calls out to Rick and Michonne, I hook my bow on the back of the motorcycle. The motorcycle, the motorcycle. I climb onto it after Dad and try to remember how much I used to love riding the thing, but that just hurts, and so I stop that. Michonne and Rick get in the truck and Carol and Beth start taking out walkers near the gate for us. Carol sees me and her lips thin up and her eyes get all worried but she doesn't say anything. And as Maggie and Glenn open the gate itself, and just before the motorcycle gets us out of here, I have to glance over at Carl, I have to. He's gotten up from the bleachers. He's watching me and me alone. His mouth is wide open. And even from here, and even with him wearing his hat, I can see the hurt on his face.

And the anger.

Then the motorcycle revs and we're heading to Woodbury.


	30. Bang

It doesn't take long, doesn't take long at all, for us to come up on the trucks. The trucks the Governor had, big trucks that look like they could bust through the side of a house. They're not moving, though, they're just sitting on the road, and the road is littered with bodies. And five or six walkers that gnaw on those bodies. Dad slows, stops the bike, and once the truck's shut down behind us it's just that eerie sound of flesh being ripped from bone, then chewed, then swallowed. I'm used to that sound by now, but I still hate it. And of course, once the four of us get close enough, the walkers start snarling. A couple of them get arrows in the head, a few others a sword. Then Rick finishes off the last one with his knife, and I back up against the biggest truck, this camouflaged beast, and scan around us. Then there's a loud _thwack _from behind me, and I jump and whirl and have time to see a face in the window before my dad yanks me away. It's not a walker face, though, it's a human, a woman. Alive.

Dad opens the door, his knife in his hand, and gestures for her to climb out. Rick holds a gun on the woman for a while, then stops, and – in a trembling voice – she tells us her name is Karen. And she tells us how the Governor turned on his own people, his own soldiers. Shot all but two of them – his right hand men, she says, Martinez and Shumpert. Karen hid under a corpse. That's the only reason she made it. Because she hid under her friend's corpse.

Rick asks if the Governor would have gone back to Woodbury. Karen says she's not sure. Then Karen says something about Andrea, asks if she made it to the prison, and we all look at her funny. And Rick tells her Andrea's not at the prison. Which means she might be at Woodbury. Which means, whether for the Governor or Andrea – I'd like to think both, though – we're still heading to that town. And we're bringing our new guide with us.

. . . . .

It's dark by the time we reach Woodbury. We move on foot once we get closer, and we walk back up to it, back up to that junk pile of a wall that I hate very much. We move through some trees, past a falling-apart wooden gazebo, with my dad and Rick at the front, then Michonne, then me and the woman named Karen. We're fifty feet from the wall and out of the worst of the brush when the first shots rain down on us.

My dad and Rick, they have those big guns they brought, rapid-fire ones like what Maggie and Glenn used this morning. Me, I have a new semiautomatic pistol that I despise and a bow that's not exactly rapid-fire, so I dive behind the nearest abandoned car with Karen and Michonne and go ahead keep my bow at the ready, debating if it's worth trying to take a shot with it. My dad and Rick join us seconds later, aiming from behind the car up at the top of the wall where the guards must perch, and then it's just this loud shootout and I hate shootouts because you never know – and my dad's right there, right here, right next to me, but still – if he gets hit –

Then there's a short moment of quiet, when the guards must be reloading or talking or something, and I hear "Tyreese!" and look over to see Karen standing up, arms in the air. "It's me, don't –"

Rick pulls on her, she falls. _"Get down!"_

But it's too late. "Karen!" comes a distant voice. "Karen, are you okay?"

And Karen's up again, this time moving out of Rick's reach. "I'm fine!"

"Where's the Governor?"

"He fired on everyone! He killed 'em all . . ."

"Why're you with _them?"_

"They . . . saved me!"

Then, "We're comin' out!" And that's Rick.

I hear my dad loud-whisper _No_, but Rick's set, I think. "We're comin' out," he says again, and my dad locks his jaw and grabs me by the coat and pulls me with him around the car. He stands up with his gun at the ready, but then he looks over, and Rick must have his hands up, because with a sigh that says he thinks Rick might be an idiot, Dad lifts his free hand and his gun, too. And so I follow him, my bow in the air.

The gates of Woodbury are like the gates to a castle, only uglier. Meaner. And now they open and every instinct in me says _get out of here _and I can't, especially not after I worked so hard to get to come. So I hold my chin high as we step up to the gate, not quite crossing through, meeting with a big man and a smaller woman, both with dark skin and cautious, distrusting looks on their faces. The woman takes the time to look each of us over, her eyes snagging on me, but the man starts to talk to Rick right away.

"What're you doin' here?"

"We were comin' to finish this. Till we saw what the Governor did."

"He . . . he killed them?"

"Yeah."

Tyreese looks horrified and I decide maybe Tyreese could be alright. If he wasn't with Woodbury.

"Karen told us Andrea hopped the wall," says Rick. "Goin' for the prison. She never made it . . . She might be here."

She has to be here. Andrea's here, and she's fine. I can't . . . I don't want to deal with it if she's not.

And Tyreese, Tyreese is definitely alright. Because he agrees to let us come in and look for Andrea, if we take him with us. The woman with him – he calls her Sasha – goes off because she's guarding the old people and the children. Karen goes with her. Me and Dad and Rick and Michonne and Tyreese go hunting for Andrea. Only it doesn't take long, because all of my group has a hunch about where she'll be. The same place he kept Maggie and Glenn. That fun, fun place. So we walk, fast, through this hellhole of a town, and it makes me sick every step of the way . . . Because it reminds me of the Governor, sure, but it reminds me of my uncle even more. It reminds me of pain and hurt and I want to leave, very much so, and then it gets even worse when we actually go through the alleys and get to the empty slab of gravel in front of all those doors, and then when we go through one that Rick remembers and enter a hallway, the smell of old wood almost makes me sick, makes my collarbone ache and my arm burn. But I won't say a word, I won't. I'm here with the grownups and I'm going to act like a grownup.

"This is where he had Glenn and Maggie," says Rick as he starts down the hallway, his gun up. The place still has electricity, but the single light is dim and casts spooky shadows all around the cluttered hall.

"The Governor held people here?" asks Tyreese.

"Did more'n hold 'em," says Dad, and I remember Glenn's face, his poor face. That was my uncle, though . . . Won't think about that. Dad and Rick and Michonne, they all wait a few seconds before lowering their weapons, and me and Tyreese follow them. My bow's not up, but it's ready. I'm ready. We don't go far, though, the five of us. There's a door at the end of the hallway, a huge metal door. My three people pause, Dad checks me and then lifts his gun again, and Michonne pulls her sword and says, I think to Rick, "Will you open it?"

And Michonne sounds odd. That's when I bother to look more closely at the door. That's when I see the blood seeping from under it. That's when my own blood really starts flowing and I readjust my grip on my bow, on my release, and I position my feet so I'm ready to run, forwards or backwards. And I watch, not breathing, as Rick's hand slowly goes to the lock near the top of the door. "One . . . two . . ."

The door makes a terrible wailing noise as it opens, revealing a room mostly empty except for a chair and a body on the floor, a body with a bloody head and hands, but it's not Andrea, it's not Andrea, only then Michonne's racing forward and she _is _saying "Andrea!" all scared-like, and I'm confused and terrified but she runs over beside the door, to the left of it, and Rick follows her and then so do I. I'm pretty sure Dad's hand flies out to catch me but he misses and now I'm in the room and Michonne's sitting on a short chair and Rick is kneeling and they're next to Andrea, Andrea, who's slumped on the wall and bloody. With her blood? The body's?

"I tried to stop it," she says. Whispers. She's only whispering. It's dark in here, but I can tell she looks tired. Why – ?

"You're burning up," says Michonne.

And Andrea, she reaches up to her shoulder. She pulls back her shirt. And it's her blood, it's her blood, at least some of it, because Andrea's bit. She's bit, I know it, I've seen that mark before. My hand goes up to my mouth, and I feel Dad take hold of my shoulder, and maybe he's trying to pull me out into the hall, but no, I won't let him, I shrug him off.

"Judith," says Andrea, pulling herself closer to Rick. "Carl. The rest of them . . ."

_"Us," _Rick tells her, leaning in close. His face looks very different than it did the last time he saw her. I guess mine probably does, too. "The rest of _us."_

Because Andrea was there in Atlanta, she was there on the farm –

"Are they alive?" Andrea asks. Michonne's holding her.

Rick says yeah. Andrea looks at Michonne – who's dripping with tears – and says it's good she found us. Michonne nods. Her face is all wrinkled up the way faces get when people cry. I'm not crying. I feel like my fingers do when I'm wearing those gloves of mine. Numb. Numb, numb, numb. And Andrea looks up and says no one can make it alone now and my dad says they never could and Andrea's hand ends up gripping mine and I remember the CDC, and Dale, and the piano, and – and – and Andrea says she just didn't want anyone to die, and then, and then she's saying, she's saying _I can do it myself, _and I've heard that before, and I don't think my dad likes suicide but he doesn't say anything, it's Michonne who says _No, _and Andrea says she has to, while she still can. And this is all so familiar, so familiar, and Andrea is lying here dying and it's heartbreaking enough but now she's making me think of my mom and how hopeless that was and that's why the tears start rolling softly down my face and I can't do anything about it so I don't try. And Andrea looks at Rick, she looks at Rick and says, "Please." And Rick doesn't say anything for a minute, and Andrea says, "I know how the safety works." And then Rick hands gives her the gun she wants so badly.

"Well, I'm not goin' anywhere," says Michonne, strongly, and I know Carl started to trust her back when she went on the run with him and Rick but I'm just now starting to consider that maybe we should want her to stay, maybe she's good, maybe . . .

And Andrea doesn't argue with her, with Michonne. She looks around at us all, at me and Dad and finally Rick, and she says, "I tried." And she's not even crying, Andrea. She's not even crying.

"Yeah," says Rick in a really raspy voice, "You did . . . You did." And he stands. Andrea drops my hand. I feel her fingers slip out of mine like it's slow motion and then Dad finally gets me out in the hall, where Tyreese has been waiting all along, and for some reason I don't want him to see me cry, so when Dad sits on a chair or a stool or a crate or whatever I bury my face into his jacket and swallow, swallow a lot, and I hear Rick come out and close the door and waiting for it is the worst part, it's the worst part, and Dad has an arm around me the whole time but he has both around me after the _BANG._ "I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry," he murmurs to me then, and I know he means he's sorry he let me come here and I'm not sure if I want him to be or not and I can't think about that right now, I can't think about it, the _BANG _is still ringing too loudly in my ears.


	31. The Introduction

"They're good people," Tyreese is insisting to Rick thirty minutes later while the three of us walk across Woodbury.

"I'm sure they are," Rick says, not so convincingly. "I'd still like to meet them myself before I make any promises."

But Dad and Michonne are already checking the buses that make up part of the Woodbury wall, hoping that one of them works or at least can be made to. Because there are, according to Tyreese, about fifteen or so people left here – the old people, the sick ones, the little kids. And Rick's thinking of bringing them back with us. To join us at the prison.

Something's definitely changed in Rick, if he's seriously considering that. I think . . . I don't know . . . I think it might be a good thing, that change. I mean, it still makes me nervous, this plan, and it makes my dad nervous, and there's a part of me that doesn't want those people – who were probably at the arena that night cheering for Dixon blood – in our prison. I don't want to be responsible for them, I don't want to have to protect them the way I would Carol or Beth or Judith. But then again . . . It's a kind, generous thing to do, taking them in, and we don't get to do stuff like that much anymore.

And anyway, I don't have to forgive them. Not immediately, anyway. Not ever, if I don't want to. Hell, once they're at the prison, I guess I actually don't owe them a damn thing.

My uncle would probably be against it, letting them in.

I don't know.

Tyreese leads us to the other side of this little – empty and dark – town. He points at a door when we near. It's nothing special, just a little white wooden thing in the side of a red brick building. "There we are. Like I said, they're good people. Won't cause any trouble."

"And they're all old or young?" asks Rick as we walk. I look up at the sky, find the North Star. _There you go, Andrea. Find your way home._

If there is a heaven. I've never decided.

"For the most part. Except me and Sasha, of course." He pauses. "And Elsie."

"Elsie?" I repeat. I glance at Rick as I ask, "Ain't she one of the Governor's soldiers?"

"She is," Tyreese says. Carefully. "Or . . . was. But she's not . . . she's not like the others. Really. And lately she's been a defender of the prison. As much as she could be."

"That why the Governor left her behind?" says Rick.

"Yes and no . . . She's . . . been having some mental issues."

Rick stops in his tracks. We're right outside the door now. Rick, he lowers his voice, and I turn and survey the street. "We can't bring a crazy person back to the prison with us."

"She's not crazy. She's never hurt anyone at Woodbury."

"It's not a chance I can take."

"I'll be personally responsible for her. She's a good woman. C'mon, man, just meet her, give her a chance."

I look back in time to see Rick pressing his lips together, thinking. Eventually he gives a few nods. "Alright. Let us in."

So Tyreese does, and I hear a few gasps from inside, the kind of gasps scared people can't help but give off when a door opens. Rick follows Tyreese in, and after one more check over my shoulder, I do the same.

There are a few candles that give off a little light, sitting in the middle of a filled circle of chairs. Several faces, wrinkled ones and smooth ones, look up at me and Rick with uncertain eyes that glow in the firelight. I see Sasha standing against the wall, and she still looks unsure of all of this, she's biting her lip and eyeing her brother. And then one more figure steps forward from the shadows in the far left corner, and I tense up when I see it coming, thinking this must be the mysterious Elsie. Then the woman comes closer to the candles and I can make out her face and everything I know explodes into a million pieces.

. . . . .

I love dawn. I always have. And I love it today, I can't help but love it, but it shouldn't have come, there shouldn't have been a dawn today, and as Dad steers the motorcycle through the first gate at the prison I press my face into his vest so I won't have to look at all the gold in the field and all the happy morning things you'll see if you can look past the walkers. I don't want to see happy things right now. I don't know what that would do to me.

I can tell when we go through the courtyard gate because I feel us moving onto the smoother surface of the asphalt. The prison. Home. Safety. Privacy. Right? She can't take that away. I won't let her. She'll live in a different part of the prison, where I never see her. And I never want to see her. She can't have my Cell Block C or my catwalk.

Dad stops the motorcycle and it's time to get off, time to step back into reality only so I can run from it again, run straight to my cell, where she can't come, and I'll hide away, or maybe throw things, have a fit, break down, scream, thrash here and there until my dad, my daddy, has to come and hold me and make me calm down, although I might not be able to, once I start I may never stop, and I need to get off of here now. I do, I swing off the motorcycle right after my dad does. The truck and the bus have parked behind us. The bus. Oh, God, have to get away. To the door, the door, the door to the prison, my prison, that's where I go. Dad calls after me. His voice is hoarse. But I can't stop, Dad, I can't let her see me, she might try to talk to me again and I can't handle hearing any more, I can't. I can't.

Carl. Carl's stepped out the door, stepped out here. There are others with him. Our others, and I love them, too, but they're not who I need right now, that's all Carl, my Carl. Were Carl and I mad at each other when I left? Yes, we were. We were. Oh, well. I move to him, doing my best to block out the sounds coming from the bus. Carl, he's staring at the bus, though, confused and maybe on the verge of some sort of bad emotion, but all that can wait. He sees me right before I grip his arm, right before I press my face into his shoulder, and just like I knew he would, he forgets about whatever we were mad about when I left, I can feel the forgiveness in the gentle way he touches my shoulder, mutters my name, and how concerned his eyes are when mine meet them, and the slight flash of fear over those eyes when he sees my face – the under-eye circles, the tear stains, probably some dirt and blood, I'm sure I look terrible. But he looks beautiful and I need him. He's talking. What's he saying? Something about the bus, what's happening, why am I upset, but I can't grasp his words and so I just start saying my own, saying what he needs to know, saying what I can't stop from circling my brain, he needs to know it.

"It wasn't Elsie like the name."

"What?"

"The Governor's soldier, Elsie, it wasn't Elsie like the name." I hold his face in between my hands so he can't look away, so he has to take in every word, because I'm so afraid he won't get it, because I had so much trouble getting it, didn't I? "It was the initials, 'L' and 'C' . . . LC."

And it's like a magnet, really. My eyes are pulled over to that bus, they're somehow pulled over and they move past all the extra people, and before the panic sets in, before I can jerk my eyes back, I've seen her. Wringing her hands, her dark hair pulled back and shining in the morning sun, a stained T-shirt, a gun at her waist. A goddamn _gun_. And how nervous she is, how nervous, as she looks around this place – _my _place, not hers – with those pretty green eyes of hers.

The bitch. The selfish bitch.

Carl's seen me looking, he's looking now, too. I don't want him to do that, but I guess he should know. Yes, I need him to know, that was the point, right?

"LC for Leah Cartwright." I let him go and turn towards the door. "Meet my mom."

_**THE END**_

_**. . . . .**_

**A.N.: "Sydney: Season Four" is up. Enjoy.  
**


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